World on Fire
by ElocinMuse
Summary: The world changed when the angels fell. They descended in fire, wings eaten up by flame, mass confusion and unfathomable pain surrounding them in a chaotic shroud as they plummeted. But something eminently worse rose with the sun that morning. Humanity stood by in fear, in awe, rushing to put a name to what was happening. "The end!" they cried. Season9/2014!Endverse AU.
1. Exordium

**Author's Note:** There will be artwork and a soundtrack provided on my tumblr (same username as here).

* * *

**EXORDIUM**

_world on fire with a smoking sun  
stops everything and everyone  
you know there's something  
coming down from the sky above_

* * *

In the year 2013, the world changed.

Two things of note happened. On May 15th, a great lesion was torn into the tenuous fabric of the cosmos. The sky opened up, and a vast and yawning chasm spilled Heaven down upon the earth in a brutal display. Angels were falling—cast out of their home and into the foreign world far below. They descended in fire, wings eaten up by flame, mass confusion and unfathomable pain surrounding them in a chaotic shroud as they plummeted. The earth quaked and shuddered under the assault of what transpired. The oceans, they _churned_. Mountains groaned from their vigils, despairing. The winds howled and cried, mourning the great loss. One by one, in tandem, the stars fell out of the sky in great burning trails that knifed through the clouds.

Falling, as Lucifer did.

Humanity stood by in fear, in awe, rushing to put a name to what was happening. _The end!_ they cried. Heaven had fallen, and so many were convinced the sun wouldn't rise that morning, that it was over and all was lost.

But the sun did rise. And, with it, something eminently worse. For it wasn't many months after the angels were cast out that a Knight, fresh from the ashes, rose up in a tyrannical stunt of power. No one would forget the day when Abaddon announced her name, her arrival, to the already mortified populace of earth. She stood amid a mass slaughter—demon, human, and angel alike—blood painted over her face as one did before war. After her overthrow of Hell, she promised Creation would be conquered next.

As Abaddon's empire rose, she cast fresh horrors on the Earth, throwing it into destitution and havoc, but nothing was so devastating as the plague she brought forth. It was a sickness that spread faster than Man could document, faster than could be defended against. It left Earth awash in ruin, in death.

A plague known only as: Croatoan.

The year is 2014.

* * *

_I'll return from darkness and will save your precious skin  
I will end your suffering and let the healing light come in  
I will cover you when the sky comes crashing in  
sent by forces beyond salvation  
brace yourself for all will pay  
help is on the way_


	2. The End

**Author's Note: **Point of note? Reviews make the author muy happy and, incidentally, makes her post things faster. ;)

Additionally, I will mostly keep each chapter within a set timeframe, save a few flashbacks, but be certain to pay particular attention to the "historian's note" that goes along with each new chapter, as it'll help you out in putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Example: "18 Months After the Fall."

* * *

**THE END **

_the whole world's sitting on a ticking bomb  
the sea will boil and the sky will fall  
the sun may never rise again_

* * *

18 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Time hadn't felt short at all.

"Hey, Garth."

The other sentry acknowledged his fellow crew member. "Kevin. Thought they relieved you?"

Around them, perimeter checks and safety sweeps circulated. There was a fire somewhere needing to be put out, fences to rebuild. It was just after midnight, the dark sky rendered opaque with mist and humidity. The moon struggled to appear through the cloudbanks, while the occasional searchlight forced the abandoned district beyond the fence into muggy, dispassionate illumination.

Kevin's eyes were darker, wilder than they'd been when Dean and Sam had found him years ago. He had shadows gathered under them, a testament to the sleepless nights and twisted dreams. His face was older, his shoulders wider. The dark hair that hung in his eyes was nearly back to its original length, and his jaw was covered in scruff that was too long to be called stubble anymore. Kevin shrugged. "Nah, Charlie was sick. I took her shift."

"Nice of you."

Kevin again shrugged, hefting his weapon tighter against his chest. "You gonna be around tomorrow night?"

The lanky hunter looked out past the chain-linked sanctuary of Camp Chitaqua, shaking his head, then slid his gaze up towards the waxing gibbous moon, nearly full. The shadows of his angular face became heavy, his mouth thinning into a tight line.

"Negative, amigo."

Tomorrow night he'd already be far from the camp, accustomed to the cold kiss of manacles and damp musty cellars. The moon seemed to smile back at him, fond in an almost cruel way of its lupin servant.

Kevin took understanding from the hooded look, shifting uncomfortably.

"Did they find any today?" Garth prompted instead, looking haunted, eager to change the subject.

"Don't think so. Sounded like another dead end. Just more bandits and Croats." Kevin shook his head. They'd lost three men, he'd heard. "Shit."

Garth regarded him with narrowed eyes and an admonishing tone. "You shouldn't swear."

Kevin sighed, kicking idly at the chain-link fence. "Whatever."

"Any luck on finding your mom?" Garth tried instead.

Kevin said nothing, a muscle flexing in his jaw. He shivered, but Garth didn't think it had anything to do with the evening chill.

Dutifully, he turned back to his post. "Sorry I asked."

Beyond the borders, there was a distant scream, swallowed by the night.

* * *

_the silent war has begun  
we're staring down a loaded gun  
no refuge found on solid ground  
this human race can't be won_

* * *

EARLIER THAT DAY

There were no seasons anymore. Just the constant oppressive temperature of a Hell gone topside, leaving most of the earth arid and wild.

City blocks now looked like rows of open penitentiaries, or—worse—had fallen into complete ruin. The midday sun sat high in the sky, beating down with a sweltering heat. No clouds today, just a vast wasteland of empty sky, stretching on for miles. The streets set out before them were barren, tufts of grass and weeds sprouting from crevices in the pavement. Biohazard sheets still hung from some of the buildings in a dilapidated spectacle, vines and foliage twisting up the edifices of apartment complexes and fortification walls. The hospitals were demolished entirely.

The maze of downtown lay ahead, welcoming them in crude, treacherous invitation. Overhanging tarps fluttered idly in the wind as they were suspended from rows of scaffolding; a convenient lookout.

"This is Rifle One, go for ground."

Dean had more frown lines, more darkness in him.

"_Place looks deserted_," replied the mechanical voice from the walkie he held in his hands. Far ahead, he could see Yeager and Irv with the rest of the reconnaissance crew.

"This whole town is a fucking killbox," grated Dean. He regarded what lay ahead with heavy suspicion, distrust and vigilance swimming in his eyes like tar. He knew what waited beyond the borderlands.

This was looter territory.

They were sitting dead center on a notorious raider highway in the middle of an open quarantine zone, wading through shit creek and without the shoes for it. Things would go real south real fast if they weren't careful. Of all the damn places for a group of Fallen to be holed up…

_To hell with the halo squad._

On top of that lost and utter waste of a cause, Sam wanted to search for survivors and the crew needed supplies. Dean was just looking to stick his knife into something.

"Where the hell are they?" he growled under his breath, impatience shortening his tone. They'd been chasing rumors of a First Blade for over a month besides, with nothing to show for it. It left the camp leader more pissy and volatile than usual, and everyone was giving him a wide berth.

Beside him, Sam muttered, "Relax, Dean. They were a state over when they radioed."

Taking in the sight ahead, Sam scratched absently at the patch of cloth over his right eye, a token from one of Abaddon's lieutenants. Unfortunately, the injury occurred after that piece of shit Gadreel had been expelled. And it wasn't like they had another angel on deck willing or able to zap Sam a new eye. The few they had at the camp were so damaged from the Fall that they could barely keep themselves together.

So many thought it would slow him down, the loss. That it would set him a step back.

It didn't. He was a Winchester. Which meant he killed the demon, tore away the sleeve of his shirt to wrap around his face to stop the bleeding, and finished the job before heading back to camp.

Dean still had both his eyes, but all he could see with them was revenge. Abaddon's charred remains crunching beneath his boots. Every demon, every monster, dead. All he saw was the _red red red_ of blood, and no consequence or care as to how it was spilled. The instant Croatoan hit, the world was just another lost cause anyways—what was there left to fight for if not a reckoning?

Sam disagreed. Somewhere down the line, their roles had been reversed. He was ready to keep fighting.

The walkie he held crackled to life. "_Right behind you, Bullwinkle_."

Sam spoke into Dean's walkie then, to their men below. "This is Rifle Two. Fire and Ice are inbound. We're going in." He glanced to his right. "Risa, keep a lookout from here."

Risa nodded, settling herself on her stomach, tucking the Barrett M82 tight into her shoulder. "Got you covered."

Exchanging silent looks, the brothers dropped from the scaffolding. As one, they forged ahead.

They reached the rest of the crew just after passing the remains of a grounded helicopter, aged with oxidation and flaking paint. Here, they entered the labyrinth of abandoned vehicles strewn chaotically, telling the story of a mad dash for escape. Shattered bricks and split concrete made up most of the pathway they took, just off street. The street itself was too open—not enough cover. Slanted signs loomed above them, crumbling edifices to their right. Stoplights hung uselessly from their posts.

_Now Playing: Route 666_, announced the broken down theater.

Weapons slung over their shoulders, a chill at their backs, the men turned away from the sight.

"Hold up," Dean said suddenly, raising a hand.

Obediently, the men stilled. Everyone fell on high alert, eyeing their leader hawkishly, awaiting orders. Dean scowled ahead, listening, feeling out the tight buzz that had settled just seconds ago in his gut. He scanned their surroundings slowly, methodically, grip tightening over his assault weapon. Beside him, Sam had adopted the same stance. His brother's sense of hearing was better now even than his, a compensation for the visual impairment.

"We've got trouble," the younger Winchester forewarned, his tone low and grave.

"Shit," Dean muttered, seeing the body of a man slip behind cover on a faraway outcrop. "Weapons up!"

A second later, a shot broke the quiet in half and Irv dropped dead to the ground.

After that, the deserted town became a warzone. Gunfire shattered the afternoon as more ambushers appeared from their stations. Dean and Sam both began shouting orders as the crew took cover and began delivering return fire.

The enemy sniper took aim on another, finger just barely squeezing over the trigger when he took a devastating shot to the temple, immediately dead. Back at the scaffolding, Risa slammed the bolt on her rifle back and forward, reloading another bullet into the chamber for the next raider unfortunate enough to fall into her sights.

Dean broke out the window of the Corolla they were wedged behind, utilizing the additional cover of the metal frame as he shoved the barrel of his M4A1 through and bared down on the trigger. Sam and Yeager were on either side of him, while the rest of their dozen or so man team was spread out behind whatever cover they could find.

Yeager was out of ammo in his own M4 within moments, a fool's move because the poor bastard couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if he was standing inside it, so he had nothing to show for the spent ammo besides. Dean swore impressively, throwing his extra sidearm at the man. He knew Yeager was a crack shot with a pistol, at least.

Sure enough, raiders began dropping under the shots from the old Browning in seconds.

Sam had already silenced three men with his M16 and another with his sidearm when the man tried to skirt around the pile of vehicles to flank them. Momentum sent the dead ambusher skidding through the dirt towards them. Sam kicked the body away and unloaded more cover fire for Mathew, who was making his way around the maze.

Though he still had plenty of ammunition left over in his AR, Dean quickly slung it back over his shoulder for safe keeping. There were worse things than bandits outside the camp's walls, after all. He pulled his pearl-handled Taurus from a holster at his thigh and started putting it to use.

Sam let out a string of curses when his weapon suddenly jammed. They needed more reliable gear, for fuck's sake. Scavenging was proving to be more hazardous than it was worth.

"Sammy, get that shooter to do its damn job!"

"I'm trying, Dean!" Sam shouted back. He fought in vain with the failing weapon, angry frustration welling like boiling water. "_Goddamnit_." He barely had time to register the unfriendly sight of an ambusher pounding towards him, weapon drawn, before the man was lurching back with an arrow lodged in his heart.

_'Bout time_, thought Sam blackly with satisfaction, equally irritated and grateful.

Two more ambushers died screaming as arrows found their mark. High at their backs, Castiel vaulted the roof's ledge he was standing on and dropped down to the fire escape below. He held a tactical recurve bow in his hand and wore his usual stern frown, taking the metal stairs two at a time. Bullets quickly started notching into the brick and metal around him as he drew the attention of the ambushers. The grating jarred loudly under the stress as he made a running leap across, landing on a lower escape. In no time he reached the final level, dropping down and gripping the rungs of the escape tight, the ladder going into a fast slide under his weight. Castiel dropped, boots hitting the ground, already on the move.

Using the distraction, Dean took off from around the car, tearing across the broken street and swallowing ground faster than the ambusher ahead of him could react. Dean had the demon knife slamming up into the the man's chest within seconds, then punched and grappled his way through a small group trying to reload. Luck was provisionally on their side due to the fact that only a third of the ambush party appeared to have functioning weapons.

Sam took out two men with double taps to the chest, his M16 forgotten in the dirt and replaced with the Smith & Wesson in his hands. Shooting anything that didn't spray the enemy with a hail of bullets was easier said than done these days, and he'd had to relearn everything he once did as easily as drawing breath. Another man behind him flew back under the skill of Risa's sharpshooting, clearing the immediate area for him.

Castiel fired three more arrows home, keen eyes leading the third as he ran. The ambusher was choking on his own blood in moments mid-run, an arrow in his throat as he tripped and collided hard with the ground. Behind the fallen angel, another looter tore around the corner but barely had time to draw a bead before he too was left choking.

"Don't think so, kitten," Meg's smoky voice purred in his ear before she drew her knife back out of his neck. His body didn't even have time to hit the ground before she was tearing after Castiel, hot on his heels.

For no longer being invincible, Castiel quickly became known for his penchant towards recklessness. He threw himself headlong into forays, charging enemies and barreling straight into the nebulous of battle.

Admittedly, Meg stressed. He was human now, and humans didn't last long in their world. Especially Castiel—he died more times than she cared to keep track of. She often referred to him as the Kenny of angels, which he'd never found to be funny. Neither did she, not really, but her sense of humor was always a little twisted.

But no. Castiel was a warrior before anything else. Before grace, before servitude, before guardian. And _damn_ was he a thing to look at when he got violent.

Mid-run, someone caught him around the back of his jacket, trying to haul him back into a fight. Castiel spun and lashed out, first knocking away the offending hand and then sending a brutal blow to the man's nose. To finish it, he swung his bow around by the grip in a devastating arc, nearly beheading the ambusher. Castiel pivoted sharply, drawing another arrow from the quiver at his back and firing it through the eye socket of the man rushing him with a scatter gun.

He crossed over the body and bounded nimbly up a taxi trunk and straight onto the roof, careless of being exposed, taking aim with his bow over the maze of autos. He had modified the weapon himself—both upper and lower limbs had titanium blades bonded to them, and the bloodied metal gleamed under the hot sun. Meg was beside him in an instant, her back colliding with his as she started unloading cover fire with her Beretta.

"You and your big entrances," she muttered.

Castiel spared her a brief glance. "I had stealth in mind, not flair."

Meg's smile was lazy and knowing. "Uh huh."

As the demon and the fallen angel drew most of the fire, the rest of the crew was able to secure an angle on their ambushers. The forty-man gang of looters began to dwindle as skill rapidly overtook numbers. Not one of them was as strong as all of them. Together, they were nothing short of unstoppable.

Dean ducked beneath an arcing blade, backtracking around the man wielding it to snap his neck. He punched another once, twice, in the throat and finished him with a shot between the eyes. Sam appeared at his side, his massive height a shield and constant companion as together they crushed whatever opposed them.

"Trying to flank," was all Castiel said before he stepped off the roof of the taxi onto the windshield, the glass spiderwebbing loudly under his boot as he leapt off in pursuit.

"I've got you," came Meg's unnecessary reply. He knew she did.

Around them, gunfire assaulted their ears and bullets screamed past. Castiel saw the maneuver the ambushers were pulling, intending to put an end to it. Meg tore after him, sprinting around two jeeps and a city bus, stabbing and shooting. She was lissome as a wraith—as graceful a beast as he'd ever seen. He admired her in battle possibly even more than when she was lying beside him, tangled in sheets.

Jumping over a fallen lamppost, Meg utilized her footing to spring herself onto the box of a semi. She gripped the roof rail with one hand, drawing herself up with facile skill and strength.

"Three on your left!" she shouted after him.

Under fire, Castiel skidded hard through gravel and slid behind a nearby car, bullets ricocheting around him as he shielded his face.

One charged forward, bowie drawn. Castiel heard the pounding footsteps and reacted. His hands closed over the wrist that tried to drive the knife into his heart, stopping the point of the blade a foot or so away from his chest. He twisted hard, hearing bone snap, then kicked out. The heel of his boot connected with a knee and when the subsequent scream predictably followed, Castiel tossed the man aside into the spray of bullets. One of the men still firing at him went down with a shot to the chest from somewhere, and the second suddenly had an eyeline full of angry demon.

Meg unleashed a quick series of harsh jabs, a gunshot going wild when she knocked the man's sidearm away. He used his height and bulk to his advantage, bearing down on her with brute strength. His meaty fist struck hard against her face, stealing her blood and marking her. Meg spun and weaved, cutting with her knife, and then the man doubled over, seemingly without cause, grunting in pain. Meg had her fingers curled into a partways fist, digging mental claws into the human male. She wore a snarl and her eyes were an oily black. "You shouldn't hit girls."

Meg was strong. Stronger than ten men. She liked to show it off whenever she could.

She gave another twist of power and kicked the man aside. Castiel saw the exchange and shot to his feet, sending an arrow flying past her into the shoulder of the ambusher coming up behind her. Meg finished him with a backwards arc of the wrist, burying her knife in his chest. Castiel was back at her side in moments, shouldering and fighting his way through bodies. Twice he swung his bow, slicing deadly arcs and cutting through flesh and bone. Meg's black stare snapped back to the man she'd left coughing up blood on ground, seeing the .38 in his hands. Acting on instinct, she lashed out, fingers closing around Castiel's jacket and yanking him back, out of the way, so that the two bullets _pak-pak'd!_ into her chest. She growled under her breath—she liked that shirt—and emptied the remainder of her clip into the shooter.

"Out of ammo, Grumpy," said Meg, heedless of the din surrounding them. "Mind if I borrow this?"

Tossing a charming smile his way and without waiting for an answer, Meg's fingers closed around the handle of his angel blade, holstered at his thigh, and pulled it free.

"Help yourself."

Armed with her own knife and his blade, Meg began cutting herself a bloody path.

Sam threw a man from his back as though he were a toy, whirling and punching out another that tried to advance on him. The man in the dirt he shot once, but the other he never got the chance to. A large length of wood sailed through the air, wielded like a bat, smashing against Sam's shoulder and sending the spray of kindling everywhere. Sam grunted and stumbled, but remained otherwise undeterred, much to the dismay of the man holding what was left of the wood. Sam grabbed him around the throat, pushing him back into an old sedan so hard the window cracked. The younger Winchester drew back and punched the looter's face back into the glass so that it shattered completely.

Dean had already finished his kills, standing over the bodies with a scowl and surveying what threats remained. Yeager and his team had another straggler or two to handle, and Risa silenced yet another who was attempting to make a getaway.

"Meg!"

The demon craned her neck, dark curls whipping across her face. Castiel was becoming surrounded. Meg finished the raider she was scuffling with, then tossed the angel blade back towards its owner. Castiel caught it and whirled, stabbing one attacker between the ribs, then pivoted back, flipped the blade in his hand and threw it. The holy steel embedded in the last ambusher's sternum.

God, he was fast. Even for having no power.

Meg barely even had time to express her approval before she was registering pain and a powerful force knocked her into the dirt, hard.

She cried out at the feel of her side being rent open, at the burn of the salt, rolling over to see a man with a shorty aimed at her. A shadow swept over her then, and she recognized Castiel's towering form as he inserted himself between the barrel of the gun and her. His hand automatically went to the quiver at his back, realizing belatedly then that there was nothing there when his fingers met only with empty air.

A gritty smile spread on the face of the man holding the gun, his posture relaxing. "Looks like you're out of arrows, Hawkeye."

Castiel pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster and shot the man, watching impassively as the body slunk to the ground.

Sometimes he wondered at the stupidity of people.

He scanned the area carefully as he turned, offering a hand to Meg. The question hung in his eyes as to whether or not she was alright. Meg grunted as she reached up, hissing through her teeth when he hauled her gently to her feet. "I'm fine," she muttered, glaring at the double barreled shotgun with disdain. "What the hell."

"Salt rounds?" Castiel ventured, pressing his gloved hand against the wound in concern.

Meg shook her head. "One of each. Different shell in each barrel. Bastards were prepared."

Castiel wore a pensive frown, looking briefly at the weapon as though he wished he could do it harm. Relenting that, he scanned the area somewhat anxiously. "We should work quickly."

"Your wish, featherpants," Meg replied at length, checking over the bodies for anything they could use.

Dean cast a bleak look back at the bodies of their men. Yeager and Arthur were bowed over them, considering what to do. "Fuckin' great."

Irv and Mathew, both dead.

"Shit," said Sam around a sigh, running a hand over his face.

"Well, Sam? Any survivors? Anybody to save? Maybe we'll find a puppy on the way back to camp so you can fill your good deed quota."

Sam bristled at his brother's tone. "Dean."

"This was a waste of fucking time."

"Don't be a dick," Sam muttered reproachfully. He knew his brother was not mad at him, _knew_ the object of his anger. It would lead them nowhere good.

"They're gonna get us all _killed_," Dean shot heatedly back. "How many men have we lost over this angel shit?"

"It matters, Dean."

"Only thing that matters is putting that demon bitch in the ground."

* * *

_I'm just a freedom fighter, no remorse_  
_raging on in holy war_  
_soon there will come a day_  
_when you're face to face with me_

* * *

Castiel had begun the menial task of recollecting his arrows when Dean appeared at his side, looking impatient and pissed.

"Well?" he prompted. "Where're your frat brothers?"

Castiel was no stranger to Dean's attitude towards his mission, and already he was weary with where this was going. "I'm not omniscient. I just know they were in this town."

Dean rolled his eyes as Castiel began searching the area. His friend still heard angel radio, an ability they often used to track down and locate members of the Fallen tribe. Many of them they offered sanctuary, a place in the world, while the more violent ones were dealt with in other ways. "I just lost two men for this shit, man. Either they're here, or they're not."

Castiel's eyes met his sharply, glacier cold. "I'll find them, Dean."

Dean bristled at the abrasive tone, but eventually chose to ignore it. Smirking, he advised, "Well, take teacup demon with you. I think she has cockroach DNA. She seems to survive everything. Maybe you could use her as a shield."

Meg cheerfully flipped him off.

Sam sighed with the grace of an exasperated mother. "Be careful," he offered to both Meg and Castiel. They'd already lost enough today.

Meg grabbed the front of Castiel's shirt and towed him after her. "Move it, Clarence. Sooner we get out of this damn sun, the better."

The sight was still an oddity—the tiny demon and the lumbering fallen angel, walking side by side. Sam glanced at his brother, at the surly, standoffish squaredness of his shoulders. He knew Dean hated Meg; _everyone_ knew how Dean Winchester felt about the demon in the camp. Many shared his viewpoint, though rarely said so. Even powerless, a lot of the men were still afraid of Castiel.

Once upon a time, Sam had hated Meg too. She'd been responsible for so much upheaval, so much _loss_, in their lives. But then he'd been there in Meg's final moments. Heard the things that she told him. Knew how much she was sacrificing, and that she was willing to die for one of them.

Sam was there when Meg gave her life for Castiel.

He saw, and understood.

Sam would never forget the things she'd said to him, how she confided in him. Did that make him an idiot? Maybe. Dean would never get it like he did. Dean would go on hating Meg for the things she did in her past, Meg would go on hating Dean just for the hell of it, and Sam and Castiel would be caught somewhere in the middle.

_Just like always_, thought Sam grimly as he followed after his brother.

* * *

_I am still here waiting  
I'm anticipating  
while they are orchestrating  
to grant the wish that I am making_

* * *

_The bow became almost as beloved as she was. It became an extension of him. _

_He had struggled with the weight at first. _

_"Turn down the poundage," she'd suggested. _

_"I shouldn't have to."_

_"Well, tough shit, handsome. You get to earn your strength like everyone else now."_

_"My strength was earned over _millennia_. I have existed since before this earth was formed from the abyss—before you were even a thought. It's easy for you to say this when you still have your power."_

_"You still talking?"_

_Sometimes he really hated her. But then she'd smile at him like that, and he'd be undone again. _

_"Angel with a bow is a little on the nose, don't you think?" she would tease him._

_He lifted an eyebrow at her, clearly not understanding. _

_"Cupid?" Meg pointed out, as though his cluelessness was devastating to her. She sighed at his lack of reaction._

_Castiel pushed himself, pushed his limits, in learning the weapon. _

_"Why is this so important to you?" she would ask him over time, more seriously. She did want to know._

_"I'm human, Meg. No longer an angel." He could practically see the sarcasm in her thoughts. _No, really? _"I don't have my powers to protect me." _To protect you_, he added silently. "I need to expand my skill set."_

_"Is that all it is?"_

_"What else would it be?"_

_The bow was patience, it was dedication. It demanded focus, and a sort of peace that was often lost to him these days. It was quick and silent and deadly. It was precise, graceful, unpredictable and yet limitless in so many ways. Like he had been. Certain steps had to be followed and mastered. Stance was the foundation, where strength was drawn from. Mindset was paramount-one had to focus solely on the goal, regardless of surroundings. It was deep inhales and nonstop preparations. Anchor and hold. Aim. All that existed was the wielder and their target. Release and follow through. Again and again, responsibility taken for every outcome, for every shot. The bow belonged to him, and he to it. __It gave him a glimpse into something he would never have back, that was stolen from him, and yet it gave him a distraction, an attainable focal point for his errant thoughts. It was exactly the weapon he needed. The companion, when he and Meg were at odds, when he needed help that even she couldn't provide. _

_It gave him power, where his own was now a memory. _

_The targets for him changed frequently in his mind. _

_Crowley. _

_Gadreel._

_Metatron._

_Abaddon. _

_Himself._

* * *

_no price too great, no distance too far  
if I can wish upon a black star  
it makes no difference where they are  
_

* * *

_the future is a dying art  
laying in a ditch in the dark  
I need you here but all I hear  
is the beating of a broken heart  
don't wait to say goodbye  
you're running out of time_

* * *

"You're never going to tell them, are you?" Meg asked, once they were alone.

Castiel sent her a hooded look. It was one of quiet warning, appealing to her to drop the subject.

"How you brought me back."

"As far as they're concerned, you never died. It should be left at that."

Her lips pulled apart in an almost bitter smile as they walked. "Look who's falling for his own lie." She might've been proud of his deception if the reason for it wasn't so afflictive.

"That's enough, Meg."

_Always so afraid your pets might hear of your sins_. "I suppose they'll figure it out eventually. In a decade or so."

It was Castiel's turn to sigh. He knew she was still pissed at him, but what's done was done, so… to hell with it. Live and let live while they still could. He felt dark eyes on him, felt the heat of her stare burning through his flesh. "We're not going to survive that long, anyway."

Meg's bark of laughter was harsh. "Yeah, and what if we do? What if_ I_ do? You think I wanna live alone in this cesspool?"

One corner of Castiel's mouth quirked up. "I thought you liked being alone?"

Meg smiled back, enjoying his volleys. "Maybe you're just too entertaining to lose so soon. I need _at least_ a few more decades to really sink my claws into you."

Affection skirted the edges of his mouth, his gaze slanting to regard her in passing. "That was almost a compliment."

Meg suddenly lost all trace of humor, stopped walking. "I'm serious, you know."

Castiel stopped too, staring down at her. "So am I. You think I wanted to be alone?"

Meg looked away, rolling her eyes. "You have people." He crowded her space, inspecting the wound at her side again carefully, and she went on. "You have family, brothers. Land of misfit toys and all that Team Free Will shit."

"They're not you." His voice was low and intimate beside her, his hands gentle, and she tried to ignore it.

"Don't try to be romantic, you suck at it. You could've had anyone. People might be dropping like flies, but there are still plenty of womenfolk who'd be happy to fawn over a fallen angel."

"I didn't want _any_one. Call me sentimental."

Meg snorted, swatting his hands away, and took off walking again. "Oh, I will. Incessantly."

Castiel's smile was halfhearted, tired. "I know you will."

"Hear anything rattling around in that noggin of yours?"

Castiel shook his head, eyes narrowing against the sun. "Just an aching head. I… don't hear them anymore."

"So much for good news."

"Yes. I'm sure our fearless leader will be thrilled."

Meg leveled a crooked smile his way as they stepped into a nearby apartment building that was abandoned. "Grumpy little shit. Love it."

As they scavenged, Castiel presented her with two weapons, a short barrel shotgun in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other. The silent question went unspoken.

"Baby, you know I like something with kick."

Castiel tossed her the shotgun without a word, smirking a little, and slung the rifle over his own shoulder. Meg hummed to herself as they began clearing the first floor of the complex and it did well to set him at ease, in an absurd sort of way that he couldn't quite explain. After a few minutes, catching a lyric here and there, he became even more curious.

_Fell in a cement mixer? Drowned in a hot tub? Crappy purple Scion? Danced to death at an east side night club?_

Castiel's brow quirked, a bemused expression crossing his pinched features at the words spilling from her lips in disjointed harmony.

Meg noticed his expression after awhile and was amused. "It's a song, Clarence. Expand your horizons."

Castiel shook his head, ducking under a broken beam. "I'm an angel fallen to earth having sexual relations with a demon. My horizons are vast."

A broad, dimpled grin spread wide over Meg's apple face. "Was that a joke?"

"I can be funny."

Meg had half a mind to jump him right there, but Castiel had gone still. He stared, almost sightlessly, out the open doorway into the back courtyard of the complex. Meg regarded him uneasily, given his sudden demeanor. Hesitantly, she drew up beside him, following his stare.

There, spread out over the dying lawn, were the bodies of at least a dozen angels. It was clear they had died mid-battle, having killed each other.

"Damn it," muttered Castiel, averting his eyes sullenly.

Meg sighed heavily beside him, glancing his way. "Sorry."

"This was a waste of time."

Irv and Mathew had died for nothing. _For nothing_.

Meg observed the harsh cut of his scruffy jaw, the tense lines of his body and face. The blue of his eyes was dull and angry and she knew how badly this affected him—more so even than what he allowed her to see. Castiel hid so much from everyone nowadays. Before, the angel had practically been an open book. He often spoke what was on his mind, what he was thinking through every experience. He was childlike almost, in that gruff way only he could manage. Now, though, he was much more withdrawn. He rarely spoke of how he was handling things—which worried her. He was a prime example of the old _fish out of water_ adage even when he'd had his powers, but now he'd had humanity forced on him and he wasn't saying anything.

Meg wasn't big on sharing circles, and she really didn't give a shit about the angels, but she knew that he did. She wished he would say something—wished she could say something, anything, to lessen the grief that was eating through him. It was a sentiment she wasn't well acquainted with—this inherent need to put an end to his suffering. At least not one she'd felt for a very long time.

_You can't save everyone, Castiel. _Meg regarded him dismally, knowing that even if she spoke the words aloud, he wouldn't listen. _And you can't save someone who doesn't want to be rescued._

Castiel turned away from the sight, back into the complex, and began his angry march back to the crew. There was a sudden clatter above them, and then a sensation not unlike stepping into a brick wall as Meg stopped him with a hand on his chest.

His gaze darted to her face. "Meg?"

Eyes black as pitch. "They're coming."

"What's coming?"

"The hell you think?" Meg's tone was dark, battle ready.

Castiel stared at her, grim realization dawning in his eyes. "Croats," he said.

In the distance there was a shout, chased immediately by the sound of gunfire.

"Shit," she murmured, looking around.

Beside them there was a crash, and then Castiel was being tackled into the wall. Picture frames coated in dust were knocked from their places and sent crashing to the floor as he grappled with the rabid Croat that fought to sink its teeth into his flesh.

Meg brought her knife glistening to the light, a second away from intercepting the parasite when she suddenly had her own armful of snarling infected to deal with. "Cas!"

He punched his way partly free, struggling to get a weapon out. The rifle he'd picked up clattered to the ground at their feet and was kicked aside. Any leeway he made was quickly stolen, and the sound of more pounding footsteps above them was an ominous foreboding.

Meg stabbed and cast out her power, cutting her way free just in time to see Castiel tackle his new friend through the large picture window into the courtyard.

_Well, then. _

Meg brought her recently acquired short barrel to arms, no longer wary of catching her companion with friendly fire. As Croats began filing down the staircase, Meg began unloading shells into them with some measure of glee. Other demons were tolerable, given her mood was decent. But she _hated_ Croats.

Castiel felt the bone-jarring impact as the ground rushed up on him. Glass rained over his body and jacket, and he scrambled over the broken shards to put some distance between himself and the snarling mass. He barely had enough time to get to his feet before it was on him. He fought it back with a series of blows, reaching over his shoulder and bringing the bow around. He was able to deliver a partial blunt attack with it, but none with the blade itself before the Croat knocked it aside and out of his hands. Castiel felt that ember of fury he'd been harboring flourish into a consuming flame. He was tired, grieving, and wanted to be as far away from this place as he could get. He surrendered to the rage, allowing himself the outlet.

With a growl he balled his fists and started swinging. His sidearm would stay forgotten in favor of a method more personal, _bloodier_. He wanted to _feel_ this creature's death. He knocked the Croat back with several hard blows, and then he reached behind his back, gripped the handle of the machete sheathed there, and drew it out in a smooth arc and sliced it through the air.

The Croat's head fell at his feet.

Castiel kicked it aside and began bullying his way through the small handful more that now blocked his way back into the complex. He cut and chopped himself a gory path, taking a moment to relish the satisfaction it brought him. Bloodshot eyes, awash in madness, glared into him during the frenzy. Castiel stared back, unflinching and unafraid. Daring them to finish him, daring them to try.

With nothing left to stand in his way, he burst back through the door, barely even flinching from the spray of blood that splattered the wall next to his head at the threshold. Meg was there, smoke pouring out the barrels of her shotgun. Together, they finished the last two.

Castiel pressed his boot against the chest of the Croat stuck on the edge of his machete and pushed, removing it with a squelch. He'd noticed over time that humanity seemed to render him less civilized, more barbaric.

"Move," Castiel said. Meg followed, without question, right at his side.

As they raced back to the rest of the group, relief knifed through him at the sight of dead Croats and all of their people still alive. Despite this, there was a severe and dismal atmosphere amongst the men, and Castiel needn't wait long to know why.

All eyes were on Yeager. He held his arm tucked close to his chest, blood oozing between his fingers and down his wrist. As he pulled his hand away, the bite mark became more clear.

_No. No, no…_

The heavy silence was broken only by the cocking of a hammer. Bravely, Yeager straightened his spine and lifted his chin, nodding once at his commander.

Dean pulled the trigger and Yeager fell dead to the ground.

Castiel closed his eyes, turning away and sighing deeply. Dean rounded on him, expression a thundercloud. Meg drifted closer to the fallen angel, making her stance known and abundantly clear, should the situation escalate more than it already had.

Dean merely spread his hands, shrugging. "Happy, Cas?"

Though the words held a false note of affability, they were delivered as a growl, a slap to the face.

Castiel said nothing.

Dean shouldered past him. The other men began to follow, a small handful moving to collect the body for a proper burial. Sam clapped a tired hand on Castiel's shoulder briefly as he passed.

"Just give him some space for awhile."

Castiel stood quietly for a long time, staring at the dead body of their friend. He hadn't gotten along with Yeager as well as some of the others, but this was no way for the man to die. Despite any disagreements they may have had, Yeager was a good man.

Castiel mused, not for the first time, that _he_ was not.

"Hey." Meg's shoulder brushed against his. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"

"Yes."

* * *

_can't you hear us coming, people marching all around_  
_can't you see we're coming, close your eyes it's over now_  
_can't you hear us coming, the fight has only just begun_

* * *

Gradually, they made their way back to their own vehicle, alone. Under the heat of the sun, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the pounding in his head. Hearing angel radio while in human form was a hazard in and of itself, and it usually left him suffering blinding headaches and a less than sunny disposition. It also didn't help that he had several thousand years worth of memories trying to fit inside a limited mortal brain, which was ironic since he was still missing so many vital ones.

Castiel ducked his head, slipping a pair of sunglasses over his eyes to stem the pain.

"You okay?"

"You ask me that too often. I'm going to start thinking you care."

Meg gave a delicate scoff, a fine dark eyebrow arching for her hairline. "Didn't mean to give the wrong idea."

"Wouldn't want that."

Suddenly he was pressing her up against the side of their jeep, his chest brushing hers as he closed the distance between them. One of his hands fell to the side of her neck, the other curled around her waist, and he was kissing her. _Yes._ Her veins sang, his touch sending that familiar thrill shooting throughout her entire body. Meg tilted her chin up, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Her other arm reached up and circled around his neck to pull him closer, fingers delving into the dark hair at his nape. He made a soft sound, leaning into her, mapping the familiar curve of her lips and body. She had a way of making him forget everything.

It didn't last long, just long enough to leave them each wanting more. Castiel drew back, but remained close enough to see into her eyes, his hand tangling in the dark waves of hair that spilled over her shoulder. "I hate this," he muttered.

"I know you do," she said, knowing what he meant. Her fingers played with ends of his shirt, their noses brushing.

Castiel shook his head. "All of this, it's—"

"If the next words that come out of your mouth are 'my fault,' I'm going to skin you."

He sighed, turning his face away from her. It was actually the worst thing he could have done because, in doing so, Meg noticed the spots of blood peeking out from the collar of his shirt along the column of his neck and she reached up to yank it back before he could stop her. "Meg—"

"Did you get bit again?" she demanded.

"It's nothing."

Meg glared up at him, her expression fiery. "Here's an idea. Fucking _evade_."

Castiel shrugged her off. "I said I'm fine."

True, he would be. Castiel could not become infected.

The first time he was ever bitten was a harrowing experience. For everyone, really. Barely even registering the blood pooling down into his boot, Castiel had scrambled for his machete in a panic, letting out a string of pretty curses he'd learned from either her or Dean, actually prepared to cut off his own fucking leg on the spot.

Meg wasn't sure what made her stop him.

As she thought about it, without the use of both legs, the poor bastard would've been even worse. Newly human, assimilating with all the grace of a newborn fawn, and only half the motor function? He'd have been better off dead.

Then… Castiel simply didn't turn.

Still, though—at least he'd gone for the machete and not the pistol. With the almost professional way he sulked and pined over the varsity days, she'd have thought he'd leap at the chance to punch his own ticket once and for all.

But no. Castiel wanted to survive.

Then there was that whole Deal business gumming up the works. Meg didn't think he actually cared about that. Well, _cared_, maybe—but definitely not as much as he should have. Nonetheless, after the Croat left his leg mangled and his foot broken, Castiel was laid up for two months and probably wishing he had just offed himself in a blaze of glory.

Meg remembered breaking Yeager's nose when he'd tried to shoot Cas, and it felt almost ironic to recall it now. She assumed Cas was remembering, too. "Wheelman or wingman?" she asked quietly, allowing the subject to drop.

"You drive."

The moment they each settled into the vehicle, Castiel reached for the glove compartment and the bottle of pills waiting faithfully inside. He tossed four back quickly, swallowing them dry.

"Take it easy, Anna Nicole."

Castiel massaged his forehead briefly, leaning a shoulder against the passenger side door. "Wasn't aware you were still my nurse."

"Oh, isn't that why you brought me back? To take care of you?" Not even the rumble of the engine could drown out her sarcasm.

Castiel avoided her eyes. "That isn't why."

"Hell it isn't. I'm a glorified babysitter. Again." She took the bottle from him and tossed it into the backseat.

Castiel felt chagrin. They rode in silence for awhile, the barren stretch ahead of them uninspiring. "Now what?" he asked, after a moment.

Meg shrugged. "Kevin wants us to restock his TP reserves." She looked about as excited for that as one would expect.

Castiel's expression was sour. "I'd rather search for more things to kill."

Meg's smoky laughter filled the cab. She patted his knee. "I like the way you think, hotwings." She paused then, thinking almost out loud. "You ever wonder if we'll get sick of the bloody violence we surround ourselves with?"

"Unlikely."

Her answering smile was sharp and glittering in the dashboard light. _That's my boy_, she thought.

Tortured, angst-ridden, broody grump of a pushover. She wouldn't have him any other way.

_Leaving Salvation_, the dilapidated sign behind them read. Castiel regarded it grimly.

* * *

_the whole world's sitting on a ticking bomb  
and it don't care what side you're on  
so keep your calm and carry on  
cause it's about to explode_


	3. Sacrifice

**Author's Note: **Thank you so very much to my readers, as well as to my reviewers. I appreciate any and all feedback, whether it's a mere "kudos!" or "meh. not bad." Seriously. Thanks, guys! FYI, translations will be located at the bottom of the chapter (though most of them will be cited and translated on the spot during your read). As you might note, this installment takes place several months before the events of chapter one.

Buckle up. It's gonna get bumpy.

* * *

**SACRIFICE**

_come with me and walk the longest mile  
for not a year later it's got you lying on your back  
you should have chained up all the doors  
and switched up all the locks  
how many times have I prayed_

* * *

11 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"Summon Meg? Why the hell would you ever wanna do that?"

Castiel glanced up from his assortment of supplies. Three pairs of eyes stared skeptically back at him, though it was Dean who had spoken up. The hunter looked impatient, guarded and disapproving. Castiel had expected as much from him on the matter. After all, Dean often expressed condemnation wherever Meg was concerned, so it came as no surprise. Perhaps if he understood her as Castiel did, his opinion would change. But then, he rarely heeded Dean's counsel these days. If anything, their roles had reversed and now Castiel often did the opposite of whatever Dean tried to get him to do. "She told me that if I ever needed her, to call."

"You don't need Meg."

Did he not?

Castiel was harder, less put together.

It had been a slow descent to witness. The former angel was depressed, angry, and had begun drinking himself into an apathetic stupor almost every night. Gone was the trenchcoat, the suit—in its place ratty old jeans, a threadbare tee shirt, and one of the brothers' unused jackets. He rarely slept—the act was intended to be peaceful after all, and Castiel's dreams were not. Over the past many months, he'd worked himself into a passionless rut. He was callous with everyone, bitter. He needed a shave, probably a haircut, and apparently had given up coping with humanity on his own if he was looking for his favorite partner in crime.

Meg was the light at the end of this oppressive tunnel. He knew somehow, inherently, that if he had her at his side, he could do this. Meg would pick him back up—she'd done it before. He just had to find her.

"Does he not kn—?" Kevin was elbowed so hard he thought Dean might have broken something vital. With a pitiful huff, he kept quiet and left.

"Don't you need to know a demon's real name for a summoning spell?" asked Sam, attempting to stall.

Castiel's expression was approaching amusement, and he gave a vain snort. "You think I don't know her real name?" He looked to each of them in turn and eventually sighed, as though they were giving him a migraine. "I won't bring her here, you don't have to worry."

Camp Chitaqua. It was fast becoming a sanctuary to survivors and a home base to every hunter in the area and neighboring states. The idea had started in the bunker and then Sam had scoped out some old land of Bobby's nearby—vast and sustainable enough to start putting up cabins and a perimeter fence. More and more weapons and supplies were being brought in every day, and they'd start growing their own crops soon if things continued on the way they were going. They didn't know that, when the seasons ended, these plans would fall apart. Everything would fall apart.

Dean's bark of laughter was harsh and loud. "So then what? You're gonna leave and run off with your little pet demon? Buddy, you'd have been better off with April, and that bitch tried to kill you."

Castiel ignored him, slinging the duffel over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Cas—" That was Sam. Attempting again to dissuade him.

"Meg's dead."

The words were delivered like a gunshot.

Castiel froze in his tracks, fingers tightening around the doorknob so hard his knuckles splashed white.

As an angel who had done more wrong than right, Castiel knew of despair. Knew it like an old friend. But something was very wrong with him now. He felt as though his chest was shrinking, as though his very human heart was becoming crushed by the force of the ribs around it. He was certain that the ground was tilting beneath him, and he could no longer be sure of his own footing.

He felt as if he couldn't _breathe_. As though all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Castiel turned, his vision strangely fuzzy.

"What did you say?"

He heard his own voice come as if from a distance, but his eyes were fixed on Dean's face, unmoving and unforgiving.

His friend might have looked guilty, might have even looked sympathetic at one point, but it was quickly repressed. Dean was harder these days, too. "I said, Meg's dea—"

Castiel didn't even hear the rest of the sentence. It was drowned out by the roaring sound in his skull.

Meg was dead. Meg. _Meg_. Dead.

Meg was _dead_?

No. Dean was lying. Dean was wrong. His lips parted to speak, but no words followed, his voice somehow gone.

"Shit."

That voice was Sam's again. Soft with compassion, rife with pity. Castiel wasn't looking at either of them anymore. They had been there, he realized. They had been there and they hadn't stopped it—hadn't even cared to tell him until now. Did they even slow down? Did they even look back? Castiel suddenly hated them both with an abrupt, irrational strength.

Except _no_. Meg wasn't dead.

She _wasn't_. _Dead_.

Because if Meg was dead, he couldn't do this. If Meg was dead, she wasn't alive.

"_No_."

His voice? It didn't sound like his voice.

"I don't know what to tell you. We both saw it. Crowley killed her while you ran off with the tablet. So… put on your big boy pants, deal with it, and move the fuck on." Dean knew he was being unreasonably harsh, but if Cas spiraled down any further than he already had, it was possible they would never get him back, that he might never recover.

Castiel couldn't even look at them. Not now. Not with those words hanging between them. He stood in the same place he'd been standing five minutes ago, not sure where to even put his feet. Throughout it all, he listened with isolated sorrow, feeling like he was somehow an outsider to his own body. In light of his sudden emotional state, the irony of that sensation was lost on him. His thoughts swam listlessly.

"Cas, I'm sorry, man." Sam, again. There was true remorse in the larger hunter's eyes. He wondered what more he could say, if there was any magic word or phrase that could help alleviate the struggling look of near-torment behind the human face in front of him. More than once, he came up empty.

Dean looked like he might have felt something approaching empathy, but it was outweighed by frosty confusion. "Why are you so broken up over this? You had half a fling with the little—"

"You know _nothing _about what she was to me, Dean Winchester." Everything came rushing back to him in a torrent of fire. Blind fury simmered at the edges of his mind and, for a moment, he was almost as imposing as he was when he'd been an angel. "She was more than just—" Castiel broke off abruptly, temper fracturing as the words failed to find him. His eyes darted around, lost, mind racing. He didn't know how to put it into words, nor what he was even trying to say. Almost all fire left him, though the crater of pain burrowed only deeper into his chest. His shoulders sagged, defeated without cause.

It was as if there was a block on his mind suddenly. One angry tear slid halfheartedly down his cheek, which he was too dazed now to even notice. What _was_ he mourning so deeply? He felt robbed of something—her, unmistakably, yes. But there was more he was missing. Something he was forgetting. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was _right there_, but he couldn't grasp it.

Sam and Dean both looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

Perhaps he had. It wouldn't be the first time.

Castiel visibly regrouped himself, vying for composure. "Crowley?"

The effect was immediate on the brothers.

"Don't you fucking dare."

"Cas, you can't—"

Crowley was still imprisoned in the basement of the bunker, insurance against Abaddon, a useful informant, and the only hope they had to deciphering Metatron's spell.

Dean looked reluctant but violent, and Sam quickly intercepted him, putting himself between Cas and the door instead. "Don't do this, man. We need him. You _know_ that. Just give us some time to—"

"Get out of my way." Castiel's low warning was cut from ice and serrated like a blade.

"Goddamnit, Cas. Did you hear what I _just_—"

"I'm not going to kill him, Sam, I'm going to look for her!"

Both hunters started at the unexpected retort. "The hell are you talking about?" Dean spoke up from behind them.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder to level his friend with a menacing look. "You think that waste of filth actually killed her? _Meg_? Not possible."

"He did, Cas." Sam's voice was soft beside him. He looked as though he knew something Castiel did not. The regret alone in Sam's eyes should have been enough for him to know that any denial would be in vain. "Meg wasn't just fighting for herself this time."

Though it went unspoken, Castiel thought he understood the weight of what Sam was trying to tell him.

There was that sick feeling again. Castiel's mouth went dry.

"No." He shook his head, vehemently rejecting the possibility. "No. You're wrong. And I'll prove it to you."

* * *

_sitting in the dark I can't forget  
even now I realize the time I'll never get  
another story of the bitter pills of fate  
I can't go back again  
I can't go back again _

* * *

_in another time we would be as one  
in another place our lives would've only just begun  
we walk beneath the sun, we lie beneath the stars  
it didn't have to be this way, but this is what we are_

* * *

_Amarantha. Qui vocat te. _

It had been several minutes since he'd spoken those words into the twilight, his incantation punctuated by the roll of thunder. Several minutes since striking the match, lighting the herbs, completing the spell. Several minutes, and still he stood alone in this barren wilderness. The anonymity of the dark suited his mood.

He had set up the summoning ritual in a small clearing just outside the camp, the first few droplets of rain spattering against his shoulders in commune. Beyond the treeline there was nothing, yet somehow it was more inviting than the patch of civilization at his back. The darkness beckoned him with its obscurity, a more companionable ally than the thought of facing the approaching dawn. A new day meant failure, it meant he was still alone. The darkness promised something more—a secret hidden in its depths that he couldn't quite unravel yet. It swore it would have him soon.

Castiel counted the seconds.

When eight minutes passed, he reset the ingredients. He again struck the match, and again he spoke the Latin phrase.

"_Amarantha. Qui vocat te._"

The herbs lit, sizzling under the light rain. His chest cramped with unease. The night beckoned him, mocked him with its vast, empty hollows. The clouds groaned louder.

Three minutes.

Again.

"_Amarantha. Qui vocat te. Congregandum coram me._"

It was becoming difficult to light the match.

Castiel closed his eyes. "_Veniat_," he whispered tightly, a terrible ache falling over him like a shroud. His knees yearned to bow, to fall, to surrender completely. They nearly buckled beneath his weight, refusing to afford him steady ground. "_Obsecro_."

Again.

Again.

Twelve minutes.

The match wouldn't light.

Castiel wiped the rain from his eyes and face angrily. "_Meg_," he ground out. Tried again. The match still would not light. His stomach knotted, an invisible vice clamping around his throat. Rainwater had gathered in the summoning basin, its contents waterlogged. Castiel swore and kicked it over, feeling as though he were the one drowning. "_MEG!_" he shouted into the blackness, at the weeping sky. Not even the usual sounds of twilight replied now—nothing but a gaping, vast emptiness surrounding him. No wind, no leaves rustling. Just the unremarkable hiss of rain.

He called for her again. And again. Until he was screaming it, until the phantom echo of his true voice could almost be heard wailing violent against the trees. Were he still as he once was, it would have bowed them over, uprooting several until the forest was left decimated under the desperate need to destroy everything in his path. But his voice was gone and Meg was not answering.

The gathering storm began to drown him out, swallowing his furious cries.

She couldn't desert him… could she?

_Would_ she?

He refused to accept the other possibility, so instead he screamed and shouted himself hoarse in adjuration until he had hardly any voice left. The idea that she'd simply abandoned him was a less painful alternative, but even through his feverish denial, the truth stared him in the face. That night, from the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, a plan was forming. The desperation clawed at him, consumed him, blinded him until he was driven to madness. The downpour that followed did nothing to cleanse him, and with a cruel efficiency it washed away all evidence of the ritual, blood and rainwater meshing over the mud.

Castiel felt the ire drain from him, along with any and all signs of life. It was quickly replaced by a more real, tangible feeling. One that swallowed the remainder of his fortitude like a marauding black hole.

This new feeling promised solace.

It swore he would have her at his side again.

* * *

_I will stumble and fall  
it was over my head, I know nothing at all  
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you  
anywhere I would've followed you  
say something, I'm giving up on you_

* * *

_the other me is dead  
I hear his voice inside my head  
we were never alive and we won't be born again  
I'll never survive with dead memories in my heart_

* * *

The door to the dungeon burst open.

Crowley looked up in surprise, faced with the somewhat intimidating sight of his intruder jamming the back of the nearest chair under the door handle in defiance of the alarmed shouts carrying from the other side.

Six solid feet of angry Castiel stared back at him then, and Crowley felt the first stirrings of fear.

"My, my. Something tells me you're not here with the coloring books I asked for."

"Be quiet and listen."

Castiel's voice was a cracked, grating sound, though no less menacing. He was drenched from head to toe, black hair falling in damp spikes over his eyes. Curious, though not really caring, Crowley wondered what had happened to him. Behind them, the sound of pounding carried from the door, adding a worrisome flavor of urgency to the mix. "You have my undivided."

"Where do they go?"

Crowley's brow wrinkled, head canting. "Eh?"

"_Demons_," Castiel all but snarled, his expression desperate and murderous. "When you _die_. Where. Do you. _Go_?"

Realization dawned and, like a shark tasting blood in the water, Crowley offered a hellish smile. "So. The Grimm Brothers finally told Sparkles that the big bad wolf shanked his favorite plaything?"

"_Answer the question_."

Gone away was the anguish—in its place, something infinitely colder.

"Oh, you don't know half the things she screamed when under my care, mate."

Before he even realized what was happening, Crowley felt his chair lift clear off the stone floor as Castiel hauled him forward into a stranglehold.

"She would never scream for you, _stain_." Blue eyes, clear and sharp as the sea at the brink of a storm, burned into him like a brand.

Crowley was aware that the little angel of Thursday had lost his grace in the Fall, but holy hell was he still strong. The fierce, dark and penetrative quality of his presence was still just as stifling, his voice no less commanding than it was when he'd been at full power. "No," Crowley choked out, knowing he held the winning hand. "It wasn't me who broke her, you're right." He dealt it with all the care of a sucker punch to the gut. "It was the constantly calling your name with no answer."

Crowley watched with savage glee as the color drained from Castiel's face, stunned dismay washing over him. The demon reveled at the look of horror that pooled in those blue eyes now.

With a loud thud, the legs of Crowley's chair hit the floor.

"I… I was in Purgatory."

"Doesn't matter though, does it?"

No. None of it mattered.

She had needed him and he'd failed her.

* * *

_know I've done wrong  
left your heart torn  
is that what devils do?  
took you so low, where only fools go  
I shook the angel in you_

* * *

_There was the putrid stench of sweat and blood in the decayed, underground quarters. Screams lingered heavy on the air, echoing through the stone halls and nestling against the spines of every inhabitant in a kiss of ice. The promise of death visited every soul, but inconceivable torments overshadowed the light of any hope for escape._

_"Castiel."_

_Every surface was discolored with rust and blood, often black with putrefaction. The ceilings were rotting, leaking fouled water onto the floors and whatever inhabitants found themselves unfortunate enough to be trapped there._

_"Castiel?"_

_Various instruments of torture surrounded her. Meg moved her wrists halfheartedly, fruitlessly, against her bonds._

_"Come on, you ass," she said quietly against the dark._

_She received no response. Never would. _

_She'd been praying to him for months, all with no reply. Her mind didn't even bother to conjure up the telltale sound of fluttering wings to set her at ease. There was just nothing. Meg knew she should have expected this outcome, but the sting it brought her felt too much like betrayal. She berated her own foolishness, hating that ember of hope that had nestled so lovingly beside her smoke. His absence left her weak, and she'd been an idiot to think that perhaps she could know again the comfort she'd once felt with him. _

_She would never know that he couldn't hear her. Never know that, had he, he would have gone to her in an instant. _

_In facing Crowley months later, Meg knew she would have stayed behind either way. _

_She went with a smile, all while assuming he'd merely had better things to do with his time than cater to the whims of her well-being. Had she known that he himself had once whispered her name in the dark, in the hidden realm of that twisted place somehow worse than Hell, maybe she would've fought a little harder to stay alive. To be with him. _

_"Was he worth it, whore?" asked the King, just before slipping that angel blade between her ribs._

_Yes. He was. _

_That stupid angel was worth every burning, flesh-searing torment she'd endured and so much more. _

___Meg had always inherently known that, since falling into his arms in that ring of fire, Castiel would be the death of her._

* * *

_it seems the pain's been traded since I pulled you through  
and now my mind's been so jaded  
and I would kill myself for you_

* * *

"You saw her true face, so I can't help but wonder—did you just not care, or did you look on the face of the beast and like what you saw?" Crowley's smile was slow and predatory. "Or… _maybe_… it was simply less monstrous than your own reflection. Just how many sins did she get you to commit, Castiel?"

The slithering, silk voice curled like smoke along his quarry's spine. Still so much lost to the recesses of the celestial's mind… should he tip over the dominoes?

The numb sense of bereavement vanished in favor of threatening Crowley with more violence. Castiel's angel blade dropped from his sleeve and into his waiting hand. "She may have been a plaything to you, but she meant _everything_ to me."

"Did she? How much though, I wonder?"

"Answer what I asked you."

"Nothing." At the blank look on Castiel's face, Crowley elaborated. "When demons die, we become nothing. Heaven won't take us, Hell already had us. We're too highbrow for Purgatory, so we become the void. Sometimes there're remnants left behind. A fingerprint, like a ghost. Short of that, we're dust in the wind."

"Could an angel bring her back?"

A smirk. "No, but you already knew that."

An angel resurrecting a demon would defy the laws of nature, the law of God himself. It was impossible, though if anyone could do it, it would surely be Castiel. Oh, but he'd lost his halo, hadn't he?

"_Adrpan_, little angel." Enochian. It meant _cast down_. It was intended as a challenge. _Fall further_, it said. "Now. Ask the question you really want to know the answer to."

_Could a demon?_

"What are you planning to do, Castiel? What exactly are you _willing_ to do?"

Crowley had spoken those words to him before. The memory inspired rage inside of him.

Once more, Castiel seized Crowley's throat in a choking grip, the blade of his sword close enough to draw blood. The demon's wide, startled eyes met his, shrinking back at the promise of pain he dealt with the ominous crushing force of a death knell. "When I bring her back, you will know it. You'll know it as clearly as the fear you know now—_the fear of a king waiting to be dethroned__. _And there will be _nowhere _for you to run."

Crowley was released with a shove, his chair tipping back from the vigor of it so that he was sent crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and sputtering curses.

The door to the dungeon slammed, and he was left alone.

* * *

_it's unforgiveable  
I stole and burnt your soul  
is that what demons do?  
they rule the worst of me, destroy everything  
they bring down angels like you_

* * *

Sam barely had time to register what was happening before Castiel was shouldering past him outside the dungeon.

"Cas—whoa, hang on!"

He was ignored.

Determined, he raced after his friend. Castiel disappeared into his own bedroom, and Sam burst in after him to the sight of Cas tearing the place apart in search of something. "What did you do to Crowley? What did he say to you? What the hell is—"

"Photo," Castiel muttered to himself. He needed a photo.

Sam ventured further into the room, trying to make sense out of what was happening and wishing to hell that Cas would stop freaking him the fuck out. Or at least take half a second to explain. "_Castiel_."

Cas knocked over his nightstand in frustration. "Goddamn it, where _is_ it?" he demanded of the room, the uncharacteristic use of language only making his friend more uneasy. Dean's holler of concern carried from somewhere deeper in the bunker.

Sam materialized at his side, gripping his shoulders forcibly. "Cas, shut up and take a breath. Tell me what's going on. Is this about Meg?"

"I found her," he replied distractedly. A lie.

He couldn't let either of them know what he was about to do.

"You found Meg?"

Castiel's eyes fell on his dresser, a spark of hope and recognition calming his storm. Again he pushed past Sam, yanking open the top drawer and reaching inside. When he withdrew, he had the old FBI badge Dean had made for him in hand. His identification, a photo of him… all he needed now was graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, and some yarrow.

Sam felt a sinking feeling claw its way into his gut.

"I'll return soon," Castiel divulged vaguely, and was gone.

From then on, Sam would always suspect. He'd never say anything to anyone about it, whether for his own benefit or theirs, he could never be sure. No matter what happened, what would happen, what _might've_ happened the night Castiel left the bunker to retrieve Meg, Sam knew it was done with the same earnest intent, the very same _human_ weakness that he himself as well as his brother had once displayed. Sam could not fault Castiel for that.

If _love_ was to be each their undoing, then perhaps they had a fighting chance left in this war after all.

* * *

_the wasted years have passed so slowly  
I will not live without you near me  
love cannot fit inside a theory_

* * *

_the other me is gone now  
I don't know where I belong  
dead visions in your name  
dead fingers in my veins_

* * *

12 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

_Soon_ took longer than expected.

Exhaustion crippled him, a deep and embittered dysphoria poisoning his integrity. He no longer felt righteous, and he'd abandoned all ambition towards decency in the face of getting what he was after. In the back of his mind, his thoughts cautioned him that he had been in this position before, with disastrous results. Just as he had then, he again neglected all reason and did so without care. Perhaps he was no different now than he'd been then. Perhaps he was still the same monster who had opened the door to Purgatory.

His motivation was different though, now. He was not chasing the power-driven desire for a million weaponized souls. He sought only one.

Castiel stood at the crossroads for the sixth time, staring down the scarlet-eyed demon who finally appeared. It wore a young man in a business suit, its eyes glittering with amusement before it even spoke.

"Castiel?"

It sounded surprised.

"I'll assume you know why I'm here, so we can forego the preamble."

"Well, someone's _pissy_. Yes, I know why you've been snuffing out my cousins. A little petulant, don't you think?"

"Your _cousins_ failed to perform the task assigned to them."

"Right. You're looking to make a deal. Easy to see, too, what with the cloud of grief hanging over that artfully tousled head."

"I didn't summon you to discuss my emotional state, demon."

It spread its hands in a manner designed to appear placating. "Help me out, since I'm a little curious… why would a fallen angel who hates demons ever make a deal for one?" At Castiel's critical look, the dealer shrugged. "It's fascinating. Sue me."

"Make the trade, or I'm leaving."

"What—not even a threat of mutilation if I don't follow through?" The suggestion of hellfire burned behind the red gaze, a mark of hungry anticipation. "Never had a soul like yours before. Give me a moment to bask." The demon narrowed the eyes of its stolen body, studying Castiel's face, trying to puzzle him out. "No take-backs, no changies," it warned, testing the waters. "I mean… you do _realize_ what an eternity in Hell would be like for an angel, right? What they'll do to you?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Castiel's tone was dry and dead, and the demon began to laugh. "_What_?"

"I'm just fucking with you. Watching you chase your tail was too entertaining to pass up. I _lied_," it elaborated when Castiel remained stonily impatient.

Castiel's answering growl was fierce. Anger and frustration clouded him and he advanced on the demon. "I'm _giving_ myself to you, leech. Take this soul, take whatever you want, just bring her to me!"

The demon shrugged, arrogance swelling in its chest so that it leaned in a little. "Sorry. Not allowed, _Clarence_."

Castiel's reaction to the name was a physical trigger and his anger exploded outwards in brutal reply. He lashed out, one hand gripping the back of the demon's skull and the other driving the tip of his angel blade up through the underside of its jaw and into its brain. There was a predictable flash of brimstone and Castiel twisted the blade once to silence the creature's scream.

Furious and even more desperate than before, he cast the corpse roughly to the dirt and stood there panting. He tried to get a handle on his emotions and bottle the rage. He'd killed so many already and _not one_ would deal! _Vermin_. He would slaughter a hundred more until he found one willing. In the meantime—what? More sleepless nights, more existing in a world that kept trying to spit him out, and more of the pointless circles he'd been running. Anguished, Castiel tipped his head back towards the sky, closing his eyes in defeat.

There was a quiet _tsking_ behind him and he immediately stiffened at the sound.

"You're breaking all my toys, Castiel."

He turned slowly, already knowing who the voice belonged to. "Abaddon."

Her fiery hair spilled over her shoulders under the moonlight like flame. Her gaze was deadly, calculating, looking over him as one did a meal. She positively reeked of dark power, poised like a predator before him. "How the mighty have fallen, and all that. Where's your grace, precious?"

"Gone. I have a soul now."

"And already trying to bargain it. That must be some kind of record." She gradually drew nearer to him, eyes combing him over more closely. "Still... I almost admire you right now."

"You can have my soul for Meg."

Abaddon visibly bristled at the name. A scowl marred the cold beauty of her face, and she looked as though she were fondly remembering a pet that had turned and bit her. "_Amarantha_. Lucifer's most loyal... until the day she met _Castiel_. Stupid little angel who led her astray. She would have become a Knight, if not for you_._" Abaddon discarded all nostalgia, her expression chillingly stern. "No more deals, didn't you hear? We _take_ what we want." She circled behind him. Castiel tracked her with his eyes. "I could kill you right now," she mused, considering it. "You're so weak now and the stench of humanity pollutes you."

Castiel's own stare was coldly satisfied. "You know, I hoped I'd get your attention." He revealed the sidearm from inside his jacket, and Abaddon could practically _smell_ the devil's trapped bullet waiting in the chamber. Her chin throbbed at the reminder. "Either lose today, or have me in ten years."

"Depends," she replied. "How fast are you with that thing?"

"I've been practicing," Castiel retorted pithily, daring her to tempt him.

Abaddon chuckled callously. "I like this moxie, Castiel."

"You won't like my impatience," he promised, not even needing to indicate the already decomposing corpse at their feet.

Abaddon shook her head at him. "All this for a black-eyed little girl. A _traitor_ with a pretty face. And you've seen her true visage, you know she isn't really pretty at all. What a peculiar thing you are," she remarked. It was clear she couldn't quite figure him out and that it bothered her.

"You're not the first person to say those words to me."

"Oh, yes. The little Power who stood up to the _devil_. Lucifer, himself. My, my, that made the papers." Abaddon scoffed, angling away from him in disgust. "After you locked him away, Daddy gave his favorite soldier an upgrade, didn't He? But now you're human. You're _currency_, no matter what side of the war you turn to." A fine eyebrow arched for her hairline as she turned back to consider him. "But the best part of the story has yet to come. _An angel falls in love with a demon_. That's maudlin, even for Heaven's little outcast." The Knight wore a sneer of distaste on her ruby lips. "What's worse is I think she may have loved you, too."

Castiel's resolve faltered unexpectedly at the words, and it was clear he wasn't prepared for them. It set him back a step. "I don't love Meg. I'm repaying her for saving my life. For her protection over me when I needed it."

Abaddon already looked bored. "Please. Don't try to con me, Castiel, and certainly quit conning yourself. An angel doesn't save a demon unless for love. An angel doesn't trade his grace, his human soul, for anything _but_ love. While we're on the subject, here's a plot twist for you: you'll never get your grace back if you go through with this. Ever think of that?"

He hadn't. "What are you talking about?"

"If you stain that grace's vessel with a deal, it can never return to it."

Castiel nearly scoffed. "You're wrong, or lying. Dean made a deal and Michael could have still inhabited him if he'd said yes."

Abaddon had clearly been expecting that and looked on him with a lordly satisfaction. "Dean wasn't an angel." She laughed, low and needling. "A fallen angel marked by a deal is no longer an angel at all. It becomes a human bound for damnation. Tainted. And since neither a human nor a demon can become an angel...? Do this, and that vessel you wear will reject your grace forever."

Castiel weighed the news heavily, allowing the reality of it to sink in.

The silence around them became almost deafening.

"_We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us_," Abaddon recited, turning her eyes to him slowly. "I wonder if those were her final thoughts—thinking her savior would come for her?" Her hand rested in a falsely comforting way over his shoulder and Castiel hid the reflexive chill that washed through him in response. "You're brave, Castiel. But how brave?"

He met her eyes unflinchingly. "Are you going to take it, or not?"

Abaddon's smile was wolfish, her perfect teeth forming a white crescent in the near-darkness. "Oh, I will. And I think it's adorable that you think you'll survive for ten years. Not with what I have planned, sweetheart."

"Finish it already," Castiel growled, blue stare icing over in wintry resolution.

"_Mahorela_," Abaddon promised, drawing him into a brutal, searing kiss.

_Dark Heavens_, rang the oath.

* * *

_but you asked me to love you and I did  
traded my emotions for a contract to commit  
and when I got away I only got so far  
you tied my soul into a knot and got me to submit  
so when I got away I only kept my scars_

* * *

_your fear it moves me  
your weakness I taste  
you want me, you love me  
and I hate myself_

* * *

After the crossroads, Castiel was mentally adrift, new and uncharted emotions surrounding him. Limbo, he'd later realize. Meg did not appear directly before him as he had hoped, so he was uncertain of what he was supposed to do. How did one behave when they'd just given up everything for the person who was still nowhere to be found? Miserable with tribulation and having nowhere else to go but back to where he'd started, Castiel returned to Camp Chitaqua, ignoring the few surprised greetings he received as he headed for his cabin. He shut the door quietly behind himself, considering what he would say to the others.

Tossing his jacket over a chair, he decided that would come later. Now, he was tired.

How long would it take? Would she even remember him? He hadn't been specific. There were so many questions swimming in his head that it began to ache.

Castiel turned, and there she was.

Sitting on his bed, hands folded in her lap. Staring at him like he might not be real.

Emotion swept over him like a current, unbidden. Something like agonized relief, something like fondness, rose inside him. The breath died on his lips and he felt a warmth that hadn't been there in a long time.

But there was pain in her eyes. "What the hell did you do?"

Her _voice_. Strong and dulcet like a battered cello. Castiel stood there, staring at her on his bed, not knowing whether to give in to the impulse that itched to gather her into his arms, or do nothing. Perhaps yell at her for getting herself killed in the first place.

"Meg." He said her name on a sigh. A weary sense of peace filled him, his lips tipping in something that resembled a smile. He knew then in that moment, _irrevocably_, that it was all worth it.

She got to her feet. Boots, jeans, studded belt, leather jacket, talisman necklace—just like he remembered. Dark curls spilled over her shoulders chaotically like a tangle of thorns. Eyes still as sharp as arrows. "Answer me, Castiel! What did you _do_?"

It only hit him then that she was angry, upset with him in a devastated sort of way. Castiel had no answer, left speechless by her outburst. Meg put both her hands on his chest and shoved him, hard.

"_Say_ something!"

Castiel stumbled, his back meeting roughly with the wall. He was wearing only a tee shirt and jeans and the way he struck the side of the cabin gave her pause, but the rage and desolation otherwise blinded her to it. Castiel was looking at her like she'd lost her mind, his expression one of stark confusion.

"I saved you."

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" He stared at her, flabbergasted and now very concerned because Meg was _crumbling_. Why was she reacting this way? "You don't die for me, you piece of shit!" There was a strange, foreign note of desperation to her angry cries. Dread, he realized. An unmistakable, explicit sorrow fell from her and it stunned him. "Do you have _any_ idea what's going to happen to you? What you've _done_? No, of course you don't, because you never fucking _think_!"

Castiel gazed down at her intently, not backing up when she closed in. After a beat of tense silence, he collected himself. "I owed you a debt." Even as he said the words, they felt wrong and he knew he was a liar.

Meg, of course, was a liar by trade and saw right through him. Her lip curled in a snarl. "Fuck you, Castiel. Maybe I was happy being dead."

A cold, vast emptiness stared back at her. "I wasn't."

"How like a Winchester," she muttered acidly, shaking her head. It took some effort to ignore his piercing look, though she was satisfied her words had cut him.

His brow drew together in quiet anger, in a dismay so profound it shook him. "Meg—"

"You _stupid_..." she trailed off in a hiss. "Damn it, you're _better_ than this!"

"No, I'm not."

Meg rolled her eyes, ignoring the stormcloud brewing in his. "Bullshit! You're _Castiel_. Angel of the damn Lord. A Seraph! Guardian of puppies and prevailer of all things stuffy and righteous. Don't for one second—"

"And you are a demon!" he shouted back, getting in her face and using his height to intimidate and corner her. "What right did you have to die for _me_? What was I to you but a means to an end? If anyone between the two of us has a right to be angry, it is _me_!"

Castiel was suddenly colliding with the wall again, tasting blood from the punch she'd given him.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again," she growled from above him.

Castiel regarded her with halfhearted contrition, though the heated look he wore in no way diminished. "I'm not going to fight you, Meg."

"Damn right you're not."

Castiel picked himself up off the floor, cradling his arm which had struck the wall with a disturbing amount of force. "That's not what I mean," he told her, lowering his voice but not the urgency.

"Stop," she warned him. "I don't do speeches."

There was something inscrutable about his expression and Meg ran her eyes over the harsh lines of his face, silently daring him to challenge her.

"Yes you do. I've heard them, and they mean something to me."

___I've figured one thing out about this world. Just one. You find a cause and you serve it. Give yourself over and it orders your life. I'm talking as in: reason to get up in the morning. I know what I'm supposed to do. And it isn't lose the only angel who'd go to bat for me. _

Castiel spoke over her budding protest, his livid tone a testament to how provoked he was by her rejection of his actions. "I am still on your side. I'll protect you, and you'll _live_, Meg. If it's the last thing I do. You can fight me, you can hurt me, but it won't stop me from being there when you need me most. I won't fail you again. I trusted you with my life once, in case you forgot." The tense line of his body softened a little. "Stupid as it was."

Did he even realize what he was saying?

"You idiot," she murmured.

The usual smokiness of her voice was gone, leaving behind something vulnerable and aching. She cursed him silently for the way he'd instantly restored her faith in him—those terrible moments as Crowley's prisoner long forgotten. How _dare_ he give everything for her.

"What else would you ever expect of me?" asked Castiel, and those impassive stormy eyes locked with hers and refused to let go.

"_Fight_."

"That's _all_ I've done."

He kept his eyes on her until something in Meg's opaque study of his face made him look away.

"You've done something to me," he imparted vaguely, not understanding and yet completely understanding the sway she held over him. Something stalled in the air the moment their eyes met again, and Meg unconsciously listed forward a bit more as she tried to decide what to do. Something in Castiel's expression was a vivid reminder of how he'd been before—of how _they_ had been, once.

"Bringing me back was a mistake."

What would ever possess him to place such _trust_ in her, to the point where he would sacrifice so much? The silence in the room only amplified the way his breathing deepened, the way her clothing rustled as she took yet another step into his space.

"I will never believe that."

The words were said with such _conviction_, his voice low and thick and so laden with everything unspoken between them. Something about the tense look in her eyes should have warned him that she was about to do something.

"Mistake," Meg muttered again before reaching out and seizing him by the front of his shirt. He didn't even seem surprised when her other fingers dove into his hair and pulled him back against her, their bodies pressing flush to one another's as she kissed him hungrily. His arms were around her in an instant, large hands traversing her sides, the small of her back, the curve of her hips. He dove into her like a starving man. The feel of her lips was painfully passionate, as heady as the memory of how he'd kissed her once before, when there had been hellhounds chasing them.

The warmth and solidness of him everywhere against her was so beyond stunning. Her teeth nipped and tugged at his lower lip and she tasted the blood—but there was no burn like white acid on her tongue. Just the regular bitterness of blood.

Meg drew just enough away to speak breathlessly against his mouth. "What's happened to you?"

She'd been so distracted by her anger that she hadn't noticed his light was gone.

Castiel made a sound of implicit suffering. "Everything," he managed, the word swallowed by her lips. _Erase this, all of it_, he thought desperately, knowing she would.

There was something very wrong with him, but Meg ignored the part of her that desired to find out exactly what it was. She needed to know him again, relearn him again.

Her fingers pulled at his hair and she invaded his mouth. Castiel's arms drew her tighter into him, needing to feel her everywhere and all at once. He'd missed her—_missed_ her. How could he mourn something he'd never known? How could he revel at the familiarity of this intimacy, the relief at her touch, as though it were a reunion instead of an introduction?

Castiel took the front of her leather jacket roughly in his hands, pushing it down off her shoulders, and Meg threw it away with haste. Her fingers slid beneath his shirt, scratching and pressing over the warm flesh of his chest and stomach, thinking how she'd once mapped the strong planes and ridges with her mouth.

_No. That never happened_, she reminded herself. The bitter taste of regret made her even more desperate. Her nails clenched hard into his shirt, almost ripping the material apart. She raised it over his head and tore it off of him, giving him barely enough time to raise his arms. Castiel grasped her by the hips, lifting her into the air with a strangled sound of desire. Meg made a needy sound, tangling her legs tight around his waist. Something rattled on a shelf and toppled over when she was slammed back into the wall and Meg didn't care if it was payback from before or if he was just as inconsolable to the situation as she was. She gasped into his mouth, still needing more of him. Her nails dug harder into his back and with a groan, he leaned into her.

Her shirt was torn open and cast aside somewhere with his. Castiel pressed against her heaving chest, relishing the delicious feel of her soft skin on his, fingers tracking a path down the center of her body until he felt the ridge of scar tissue left behind by the fatal stab wound. Something inside him twisted at the agonizing reminder, needing to wash it away and yet needing to show her what it meant to him. Meg chased his mouth with hers, but he withdrew and did something that shocked her.

Lips finding the point of her pulse, murmurs spilled from Castiel's mouth onto her skin. The Enochian words were endearments he'd have never thought to use before, and they passed his lips unguarded. But Meg reacted to them like she actually knew what he was saying. Needing for him to stop, the words devastating her and rebuilding her all at once, she drew his face back to hers, determined to fall with him. Determined to find what had been missing, what she'd been craving, to see what effect this would have on him as though it would make or break her. Death had opened her eyes in new ways, in old ways. So much was different and yet everything was exactly the same.

Meg moved against him and they swallowed each other's cries. Her cool skin was almost a relief against his. She reached out and raked her nails down his chest, tracing the curve of lean muscle and scarred flesh left over from a sigil. She remembered him telling her how he got it. Another scar that lay beneath his flesh drew her eye, impossible to miss, though he himself would never see it. The dark mark on his soul that spoke of the lengths he was willing to go for her.

His _soul_.

Meg knew in that moment that Castiel was human.

He was a man. Flesh and blood.

Sacrifice had marked them both, and the realization shook her. With renewed hunger, she deepened their kiss, making it impossible for him to breathe without tasting more of her darkness. Her body lifted into his eagerly and Castiel seemed to come apart in her arms. He couldn't seem to get close enough. Securing one arm around her waist, he used his other to push off from the wall, turning them to collapse with her on the bed.

Meg's hips arched and her legs tightened around him, her hands falling to his waist and working at the buckle of his jeans. Castiel's hands were gentler now, though no less urgent. Meg trembled underneath him, an almost constant litany of soft and desperate noises urging him along.

Soon, their broken moans and choking gasps mingled to drown out the growing uncertainty between and surrounding them, because _yes_, he was just like she remembered, and she was everything he imagined her to be. With the rising heat between them, Castiel could barely focus his tangled thoughts, but, somewhere in those moments, he recognized that this was as close as he'd ever been to touching what he'd been missing for so long.

He cursed himself for not having the willpower or the strength to stop this from happening, even as, at the same time, he desired a thousand more moments like it.

This wasn't why he brought her back.

Or perhaps it was precisely why he brought her back.

He couldn't be sure of anything anymore. His emotions would be fascinating if they weren't so destructive. Because how did he know that touching her _there_ would elicit such a reaction? That kissing her _here_ would have her practically screaming? That when she moved like _that_, he would crumble like the walls of Jericho in her arms?

Meg's entire body hummed with relief as she stared up at him. His hand pressed over her heart and he leaned against her, resting his weight gratefully in her embrace.

When he spoke her name—_her true name_—Meg was not stunned that he knew it. Her entire being responded to his call, reacted as though he'd spoken it a hundred times. Fleetingly, he considered how odd it was that not even _he_ could recall when he'd come to know it. Lost in the haze of pleasure and bliss, Castiel would forget those small revelations, deciding that finally having her in his arms was enough.

* * *

_I breathe you, I hate you  
you course through my veins  
because I want nothing else  
I bleed you, since I've healed you  
your pain escapes through me  
I see you and I feel you  
oh I hate you, but I'd die for you_

* * *

_now I'm rising from the ground  
rising up to you  
filled with all the strength I found  
I need to know now  
can you love me again?_

* * *

"You just couldn't find it in you, could you? To let me rest in pieces."

His lips trailed across her bare shoulder, soft brushes of skin and eyelashes. "No," was his quiet reply.

Meg sighed and shifted towards him. "Come on. I was gone and you could go do your angel thing. It was better that way."

"No, it wasn't."

Naked and wrapped in the sheets of his bed, it looked as if she belonged there, as if she was born to make an imprint in his mattress, on his heart, and Castiel couldn't stop staring at her. He was still terrified that if he touched her, she'd disappear again. Tempting the thought, he ran his fingers through the hair at her temple, contemplating a dark curl he held. "I prefer your hair this way."

"So do I. If I was brought back as a washed out blonde, I might've shaved my head."

Castiel's nose wrinkled and she laughed. The sound was low and dulcet, a balm on his fading concerns. Meg's fingers trailed over the muscles of his stomach, her smile sly.

"What? A buzz cut not appealing to you?" she drawled, sliding against him to settle into his side.

Meg felt the huff of laughter rumble through his chest. "I think you would appeal to me in any form."

"Good to hear." Her nails dragged lightly over the ink beneath his flesh, just above his hip. "Dig the tattoo, Clarence. Mid-eternity crisis?" Meg's smile had its usual wicked tilt, though her lip quivered a bit. She hesitated then, dropping her needling tone and becoming more serious. Her darkness again searched out his light—that grace she'd never been able to look away from and that constantly drew her in. Instead, she saw nothing. Just the shell of a broken man, another fallen hero. "You're not an angel anymore, are you?"

It took him a moment to reply, the confession somehow lodging in his throat. "No."

Meg propped herself up, her dark eyes combing over his face. The tangled lengths of her hair fell in a curtain over his chest, and Castiel thought she looked exquisite. The dawn was just barely stealing through the shades on his window, bathing her in a morning glow that belied what she was. Her lips were still pink and swollen, faded bruises peppered over the milky expanse of her skin. Castiel thought the bite mark on his shoulder would probably still ache tomorrow. She was looking at him in a way he didn't think she had before, features softer somehow.

"Humanity's gonna kick the shit out of you," she told him, the words somehow holding no derision. Castiel's short grunt was without humor, but indicated agreement. Meg's hand trailed down from his shoulder, over the arm she'd unwittingly injured. Now that the heat of the moment was over, she could tell it was hurting him, even if he didn't show it. Her thumb slid over the warm skin of his bicep, regret making her frown. "How long has it been? Since you fell?"

"A year."

"Hm. Cookie for you, for sticking it out this long."

"I'm not sure how relevant pastries are to my sudden mortality, but I don't think having one would make me feel better."

Meg stared at him like he was both the bane and highlight of her existence. "You have got an ass where your head should be," she told him, affectionate exasperation coloring her tone.

He looked so utterly confused by that that he didn't even attempt to reply.

Meg chuckled, looking down at him with a fondness that belied the cut of her words. "You're lucky you still get my motor running like this." Her smile was sharp but genuine, and she ran a finger along the strong line of his jaw. "Humanity suits you. More corruptible this way."

Castiel gave a short laugh, glancing up at the ceiling as though it held an answer. "I was perfectly corruptible all on my own, if memory serves."

_And what good were memories, anyway,_ Meg thought sorely. She regarded him with rare, naked intimacy. "Violence begets more violence. We're all villains in some way, Castiel." She knew that he still felt the weight of every reprehensible thing he'd ever done. Sure, he'd fucked up, but it was time to move on. "The world is full of monsters, no matter where you look. Sometimes they're the thing you're fighting, sometimes it's the thing you see in the mirror. We do what we must, devil take the hindmost. I couldn't help what I did in Hell. Sure, it was my fault for landing there, but the rest? Not on me. It is and it isn't."

Raptly, his eyes slid over her face, drinking her in as though he were committing every line of it to memory. "That shouldn't make sense."

"Does though?"

"Yes."

"Mm."

His hand rose to brush against her neck, fingers trailing gently until he was cupping her face. Meg felt herself unconsciously leaning into the touch. He was looking at her so strangely, so intensely. As though he were trying to see through her, into her. Castiel's thumb ghosted over her cheek, wistful.

"I can't see your true face anymore," he said quietly.

"Lucky you."

Castiel considered this. "Not really," he said, candor lacing his tone. "I rather admired it. I think I might even miss it."

That surprised her, stealing the witty retort right out of her mouth. Meg stared at him, not sure what to do next. "Then how do you even know it's still me?"

He smiled a little, an almost teasing glint in his eyes. "I know."

Meg's eyes narrowed at him. She poked him hard in the chest. "How?"

Her predictable impatience made him chuckle. "I don't know... I believe a part of me will always see who you are. There's a... familiarity I feel towards you that I can't always explain. Something that makes us kindred." At the dubious look she gave him, he went on more seriously. "You're still there, Meg. Even if my eyes no longer work as they used to. And... I find that I need you now just as I have before."

Castiel knew the way he saw her ran so much deeper than he could put into words. He could still see her in the same way that a blind man could still fall in love. He felt her, _could_ feel her, in every way that truly mattered. With the heart.

Their eyes locked and Meg shook her head. "You don't need _me_," she said, moving to get up. It was dismissive. Like the word, the idea of her own importance, left an unsavory taste on her tongue. But Castiel had reached out to grab her by the hand, and Meg let him stop her.

There was a defensive note of urgency to his tone, even though he spoke at her gently. "I _have_ needed you. I tried, Meg. Doing this without you. I couldn't. I..." His brow drew together introspectively, his own thoughts still a mystery to him. "_Wouldn't_."

Meg felt something spark inside of her. She was supposed to be done, and yet here he was, making her catch fire again, breathing life into her again. She hated him a little for it. But then, as trite as it sounded in her head, he was special. She'd known the second she laid eyes on him in that ring of fire that there was something different about him.

Castiel was looking at her like she was a rare gem he'd been searching for, as though she was the only trace of water in the desert he'd been mired in. He sat up a little, wanting them to be on equal ground. "I'm not giving up on you, either," he told her, needing her to know it. There was a time when Meg had never given up on _him_—had believed in him when no one else had. "I won't betray you, Meg. I won't let you down again."

"Who the hell asked you?" she whispered, gaze retreating away from his.

Castiel's head fell to the side as he considered her. "You didn't have to ask. Isn't that the point?"

When he had awoken in the hospital, he had made no call, no plea. He had turned and Meg was _there_.

"You took care of me when I couldn't even ask for help. Then when you needed me, I failed. What was I supposed to do?" It was partially a demand, but the terrible need in his eyes was arresting. There was still something so powerful about him, a different kind of light that could never be extinguished.

Meg saw the raw, unfettered emotion and sighed. What was it about him that, no matter how many times they were torn apart, he was always _right there_ and fighting his way back to her? "Move on?" she ventured at last, halfheartedly lifting a shoulder.

Castiel stared at her intently, registering her words, before finally shaking his head. "No. I can't do that."

_Damn him_.

"We go, we go together, huh?" Meg relented, a grudging acceptance making her need for flight dwindle. His presence was grounding and again she found herself trapped in his orbit. Castiel recognized the way his actions still plagued her and he did feel remorse for it. Still, it wouldn't change what he had done, nor would he undo it if he could. He leaned into her, hand grasping tighter under her jaw, his eyes shouting the words he spoke quietly into the space between them.

"I will burn with you."

Something inside her fractured, like a violin string drawn too tight. Wretched veneration filled her like a cleansing rain and she shook her head at him. "Fucking martyr," she sighed, though the harrowed affection in her eyes painted a vivid portrait.

It was Castiel's turn to sigh. "If I can save one life in this world, after all the pain I've caused, it will be yours. I _needed_ it to be yours."

She'd saved him so many times. Wasn't it time he saved her?

"Well. Lucky me, then." Meg was visibly uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone, but she'd plastered a devil-may-care smile on her face all the same. She pressed a finger into his ribs, prodding for a subject change though she disguised it well. The way her voice cracked was the only thing that gave her away. She made sure to let her eyes rove over his form longer than was necessary. "Really, _really_ lucky."

The suggestive tone was obvious even to him and Castiel regarded her antics with amusement. "I feel somehow relatable to Adam, when Eve offered him the apple."

"High praise," Meg approved, dark eyes glittering. "Forbidden fruit always tastes better."

"In my experience," Castiel conceded.

"I'll bet." Meg's smile was wicked. "A reaper, huh?"

Castiel averted his eyes with a snort at her deliberate needling. "Not one of my finer moments." Meg was clearly enjoying his pain and he narrowed his eyes at her, considering. "Does it bother you I was with someone?"

"Bothers me that I wasn't the one to kill her."

Though her quiet rage was potent, Castiel somehow saw through her unspoken defense of him. "I wanted it to be with you," he offered, "if that means anything."

It did mean something.

The effect was evident in her expression, the way her fingers curled a little tighter over his before she eventually realized her transparency and quickly released him. Meg felt an unexpected though not unpleasant chill. As a demon, nothing should have been able to shake her. She frowned at the display of dependency, but argued silently that she had been _waiting_ for this moment, for so very long.

Castiel was bemused by her sudden and unusual hesitancy. The reticent uncertainty was foreign on her and he wondered at it. It looked like she was summoning the nerve to say something else.

Meg tempted her luck, though refused to look at him as she did. "You know... when you said you remembered everything, I thought..."

_So, which Cas are you now? _

She'd needed to know. _Still_ needed to know.

_I'm just me. _

Was he?

_Really? You remember _everything_? _

_If you're referring to the pizza man, yes, I remember the pizza man. And it's a good memory._

No, Castiel. That was just the first drop of ink on their page.

_Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence? _

Testing him. Seeing what the pieces looked like.

Him staring back at her, wishing he had the answer that seemed to elude him.

_I don't know. _

Another memory skirted across her thoughts. Of the gentle amnesiac who had devoted his life to healing those in need of it.

Always his _memory_.

_I could jog his memory. _

She could have. After all, she thought bitterly, they went way back.

Castiel's brow drew together, not understanding what she was referring to or the reason for her sudden mood shift. "Meg?"

Meg visibly backtracked, something vulnerable shining in her eyes, and she retreated from him in a way that left him troubled. "Nothing. Never mind. I was just gonna make fun of you for all the times your crazy ass made me play twister with you at the hospital. Joke's on me, though, since you don't remember shit."

It was the closest she'd ever come to telling him the truth—telling him everything. She could barely admit to herself what they were. It was too painful a reminder now that it was gone. Meg almost wished she could have had the same lobotomy he'd had.

The angels had buried some things so far down in his mind that not even the tablet could free it for him.

Meg wondered how much of his mind was still broken. How many pieces still missing.

Castiel was still staring at her in visible concern at the emotional retreat. He didn't think this was about his brief proclivity for board games. "Have I said something wrong?"

"No, Cas. Just... trying to find a way to be less pissed at you."

_Oh._ He seemed to accept that response, chagrin coloring his expression. "I don't regret it. No matter what you say, I never will."

Meg sighed. "Yeah, I know." She leaned into him, over him as she pressed him back into the sheets. Her fingers slipped thoughtfully through his hair as he watched her, unused to such gentleness from her. His arms tightened around her a little, drawing her closer until she finally laid down across him, her cheek flush over his chest. His breath felt warm against her skin, but the way he flexed his fingers against her sides reminded her that, once, he could have very easily killed her.

"I'm a demon, Cas," Meg said vaguely, cagily. "We know what it is to be torn apart and put back together. Again and again until there's nothing left but to obey an order."

Her words were a comfort, though he couldn't pinpoint the reason for her saying it. They implied so much more than she was letting on.

It only cemented the notion that no one would ever understand him like she did. It felt almost childish to admit such a thing—even to just himself. But it didn't make it any less true. With her, he could breathe a little easier. Didn't feel as though he was constantly suffocating in his own skin. This body that was now his. Having her was a blessing, as ironic and twisted as it sounded. Castiel felt somewhat ashamed by it, but was too relieved and at peace to care. He was still a walking disaster, but at least she had experience in picking him up out of the dirt and getting him back on his feet.

_It's a gift_, she'd say, that velvet voice she had twisting into the sarcastic drawl he'd never admit to revering.

"If you brought me back just to be your nanny..." Meg began in grumpy forewarning, as though she'd been company to his running thoughts.

Castiel actually smiled, touched by the familiarity of her being annoyed with him. "I brought you back to be... you. If you don't want to stay, don't feel the need to just because I signed away the one valuable thing I have left. There's no debt. You owe me nothing. I just... needed you alive, I think." His voice grew soft. "So I could at least tell you that I was sorry."

Meg did stay, though. And showed no signs of ever leaving.

And trust Castiel to bargain his shiny new soul away just for some half-ass apology. She hated him for getting under her skin and into her heart, hated herself for always being a sucker for a lost cause.

Meg was accustomed to fallout.

She'd sold her soul for a love that left her on the altar.

Then there was Alistair. Azazel. Then Lucifer.

_I'm doing this for the same reasons you do what you do_, she'd once told Sam. Years ago, when she'd been nothing more than a soldier of darkness. _Loyalty. Love._

So many missions that failed her, so many masters who abandoned her.

But the fire _he_ inspired in her never seemed to die. Castiel was a single candle in a hurricane, but maybe he was the hurricane too. Maybe she was the candle. Meg had no idea of anything anymore.

Instead, she focused on the tangible—the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her, the possessive yet tender way he kept her tucked into his side, his finger drawing lazy circles on her shoulder. Meg knew he was a fool for thinking that simply having her with him would fix everything that was wrong with him. Still... no matter the reason he brought her back, she would follow him anywhere. She would look after him.

They had made a promise to each other long ago. Meg had no intention of ever going back on it.

"I have no idea what the hell I'm doing anymore, Meg. All I know is that I need you here, showing me how to... live."

She could do that.

While Meg and Castiel might have found themselves in a good place, Dean and Sam were hardly ambivalent about putting a demon up at the camp.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Dean said, his bark of laughter void of all humor as he turned his back on them and marched off. He didn't even bother arguing, though he made it abundantly clear that if Meg made one wrong move, she'd be put down hard.

Sam was less spiteful about it, though no less reluctant. His face when Cas delivered the news to him seemed to say: _Fine. But I'm going to look at you sternly._

Castiel still had so many questions. Most confusing and overpowering of them all: what exactly was she to him?

_His_, was the only answer he ever found.

* * *

_I'd give up forever to touch you  
because I know that you feel me somehow  
you're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
and I don't want to go home right now_

* * *

_you don't believe in space, you don't believe in light  
you don't believe that anything is well beyond your might  
we walk across the sky and beneath the ocean floor  
we're never going anywhere we've never been before_

* * *

That night, as they lay entangled with each other in the cabin—no longer his alone, but _theirs_—something immeasurable happened.

They'd been discussing the possible whereabouts of Crowley, after learning that the King of Hell had been released following his assistance in expelling an angel named Gadreel out of Sam. Their conversation turned to other topics as she looked over the contents of his room, asking after bobbles and items he'd cared enough about to keep. She'd also noticed the large bow sitting in the corner, and Castiel explained to her that he'd found it while on a raid and that he was trying to learn it. Eventually, his sentences began trailing off, his words becoming mumbled, and Meg recognized with some fascination that he was falling asleep.

She wouldn't know that this was the first night in a long time that he was able to really sleep, falling into the sensation even though he still despised the vulnerability of it all.

Castiel was lying on his side, faced towards her, his eyes closed. There were no frown lines, no furrowed brow. Just a youth rekindled in the face he wore and that now belonged to him.

Meg didn't think he was quite asleep yet. The question had been afflicting her almost all afternoon and so she took advantage of the potential honesty of his answer when he was most susceptible to give it.

"What if one day I'm not here to take care of you?"

"Mm," came his tired grunt.

"Cas, I'm serious."

"Find you."

The words were said partly as a sigh, his voice sluggish and his breathing slow. Meg was determined to get a real answer out of him. "And if there's nothing left of me to put back together?"

He didn't say anything for a long time, and Meg figured he had finally fallen asleep.

"Unicorn."

She immediately started, feeling like someone had just tossed holy water down her back. He couldn't _possibly_...

Meg stared at his tranquil face, sleep-ridden and weighed with exhaustion. She'd have thought he was fucking with her if he weren't so obviously not. She had to have heard him wrong. Or Sam had told him, the little shit. Well... big shit. She'd literally piss in his cereal if he had.

Then there was the fact that Castiel was out cold and possibly just spewing nonsensical drivel.

Meg leaned in close, careful not to jostle him. "Pickles," she murmured against his lips, experimenting.

He grunted softly, frowning. "Th' clown do'sn't wan' any. Ducks stole 'm."

Meg buried her face in his chest and snorted, trying to keep her shoulders from shaking. If he had any idea how she was entertaining herself right now, he'd have cursed himself blue for ever bringing her back.

"Fix you," he whispered then.

Meg instantly stopped laughing, the words lancing through her as powerfully as if they'd been an angel blade.

* * *

_I don't feel like I am strong enough  
I don't feel right when you're gone away  
the worst is over now and we can breathe again  
I want to hold you high and steal your pain_

* * *

_The demon considered the despondent angel, lately so unforthcoming as he sat without expression on the side of the hospital bed. _

_"I'm broken," he'd said. _

_Meg was surprised he'd spoken at all, and she looked up from her magazine without a word, dark eyes studying him. His eyes were on her, a rarity to begin with, and she couldn't discern the look in them. He appeared so powerless in those scrubs, so unlike what he was and of what he'd been capable. The sight was wrong, and he appeared to recognize this, in the only way he could. _

_After awhile, his eyes retreated from hers to gaze on the floor, his head hanging between his shoulders. _

_Meg set down her magazine, easing forward until she was knelt in front of him. She stared up into his face, and Castiel's eyes flicked to her, trace confusion there as though he wondered why she'd willingly be near him. _

_"I guess I'll just have to fix you, then."_

* * *

_with you, I'd withstand all of hell to hold your hand  
I'd give it all, I'd give for us  
I'd give anything, but I won't give up_

* * *

Meg was no smith, but she knew what it was to be forged.

From damned human being to master torturer. From soldier to pariah. A demon without a Hell who cared after an angel. Castiel had been broken so many times and every time he was reassembled there were pieces missing. She had always been so crippled by the fear and realization of what she could never have. But, somehow, he'd found her. He dove headlong into Perdition after her, knowing that this time a part of him would not be coming back. He would remain at her side, unfailing.

It was almost like redemption.

Meg felt a strange desire overcome her then. Feeling suddenly vacant without his touch, she hesitantly sought out the warmth of his skin, curling her fingers over his. Castiel made a soft sound, reflexively tightening his hold on her.

"_Mara. Ol aishh ol malpirg_."

To anyone else, the flowery words would have been merely a pleasant sound to hear. But he'd spoken those very same words to her before.

Something inside her came alive.

The air between them cradled an easy quiet, and Meg felt the very first stirrings of hope. When nightmares plagued him of Hell, she was there to remind him that the only relic of Perdition he had to fear was her.

Neither of them knew how much worse the world would become. Neither knew that Croatoan would _decimate_ earth within a few short months. Neither knew how the camp would be torn apart in another year. So much lay ahead that would not only lay waste to their fortitude, but to each other.

But they had this night.

* * *

_I'd breathe in fire and ash  
and I'd die a thousand deaths  
all for the sake of love_

* * *

**TRANSLATIONS**

Latin:

"_Amarantha. Qui vocat te. Congregandum coram me._" / Amarantha. I call on thee. Gather in front of me.

_"Veniat. Obsecro."_ / Come. Please.

Enochian:

"_Mara. Ol aishh ol malpirg_." / Mara. My woman of fire.

* * *

**Author's note:** Reviews quite literally make my day. Please drop one by if you can! ^_^


	4. Fallen

**Author's Note: **This devil would just NOT stop growing. It kept demanding to be longer. The flow was unstoppable. Like a uterus on its menzies. It was not supposed to take this long to post, either. Dreadful thing. But here it is!

Translations at the bottom of the chapter once again, and also be sure to pay mind to the cited timeline of each section! ^_^

* * *

**FALLEN**

_hey sister  
know the water's sweet but blood is thicker  
do you still believe in love, I wonder?  
what if I lose it all?  
oh sister, I will help you out  
if the sky comes falling down for you  
there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do_

* * *

13 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Hael was volatile at first.

They'd found her amid a massacre of slaughtered Croats, eyes wild and afraid. There was torment in every ragged breath she drew in, suffering apparent in the way her shoulders bowed. The crew had her surrounded, shouting amongst each other over the female angel poised for attack. She held an angel blade in each hand, and much of her form was overlaid with blood. The long ribbon of black hair that belonged to her vessel was tangled, and the dirt and grime smudged over her face only made the brilliant blue of her eyes stand out that much more. Even in human form, she appeared otherworldly. Already she had been faced with incredible devastation, and—between the dead Croats and the bodies of seven other angels they'd already found—she was clearly expecting another gruesome fight.

"Find an angel blade!" Yeager ordered to the crew.

Hael hissed and shrieked at them in her mother tongue, sending several men flying back with a mental shove. Someone handed Yeager a blade and another man was prepping a banishing sigil. While Dean and Sam were both elsewhere, following potential leads on the rumored First Blade, Yeager had assumed the role of commander. Resolute, he gripped the holy steel tight in his hand and pressed towards the threat.

The sigilist was shoved suddenly aside, nearly falling over himself as Castiel fought his way to the front of the group, shouting for the men to stand down. He had Yeager disarmed within seconds, tossing the blade angrily aside and into the waiting hands of Meg, who arrived with him. Her expression dared Yeager to try and take it back.

"I'm not losing any one of these men for a fucking angel, Cas!" he snarled instead, getting in the other man's face.

"Dean may have put you in charge of this mission, but an angel in the mix means it's _my_ show now," Castiel delivered back, the assertive growl cutting any argument in half. There was a gritty urgency to the way he spoke and plainly evidenced in the tense cut of his shoulders. Castiel looked ready to fight, if it came to it, and he met the other man's eyes unflinchingly. "Now stand down before I put you on the ground."

He didn't even afford Yeager the chance to acknowledge the clear threat before he was already turning his back on him. Hael was still screaming, clearly terrified. Facing her, all previous trace of anger vanished from Castiel's expression and he held out his hands. "_Etharzi_!" he placated, raising his voice over hers.

Hael abruptly quieted as though a switch had been flipped, latching onto the single word. Her vivid stare arrowed to his, wide and startled.

Hael's vessel was small and slight, and her strength seemed out of place. Around her was an almost tangible cloud of pain. For well over a year, she had fought for survival in this alien place. Everywhere she turned, something was determined to kill her. Hael had not been to earth in several millennia, long before humanity tread where they presently stood. Alone and isolated for that long, harrowing year after the Fall, she'd finally found others of her kind only to see them butchered within the hour by their own kin. They'd banded together thinking that numbers would save them when, sadly, it only painted a larger target on their backs.

From the sidelines, Yeager shook his head. "This is too dangerous. Graceless bastard is out of his fucking mind."

"Don't remember anyone asking your opinion, cupcake," said Meg, having already tucked the blade safely away in her jacket. She looked on the scene with some measure of uneasiness, having little faith that this exchange would end peacefully. One wrong move, and that angel could snap and kill them all. Still… while she didn't trust angels as a rule, she did trust Castiel. She just hoped he knew what the hell he was doing.

Seemingly shocked into silence when all noise severed so abruptly, the crew stood back, practically choked with tension. Many of them still kept a ready grip on their own weapon despite any orders, dread nestling along their spines as the two angels, fallen and graceless, squared off.

"_Monasci_?" Castiel asked, approaching the other carefully as one would a wild animal. The angel said nothing, staring at him as though unsure of the threat he posed. Perceiving the suffocating wariness that plagued her still, he slowly drew out his own blade, laying it in the dirt at his feet in offering.

Behind him, Meg forcibly dug in her heels. She felt a galling pit of dread seize hold of her insides, and it took great effort to quell the urge to go to him after he'd rendered himself so stupidly at risk. _Of all the featherbrained_… She closed her eyes disparagingly, willing the fucking idiot to be careful.

"_Monasci_?" Castiel tried again.

"Hael," the angel replied, all guardedness faltering. Her frosty eyes thawed, flooded with uncertainty and confusion as they drifted from the surrendered blade back to his face. "_Od ol_?"

He placed a hand on his chest. "Castiel."

The effect was immediate and absolute. Invisible armor cracked and split, opalescent gaze no longer fighting a war within but now pouring grief. Heartbreak fell over her, and Hael seemed to crumble. "_Esiasch_," she whispered tearfully. _Brother_.

Unconsciously, she took a stumbling step forward in relief and Castiel stared at the damaged figure in front of him, despairing at what she'd been put through. "Hael. I heard your cries."

She looked him over now with clear, ardent concern. "Without… grace." English was clearly a struggle for her still, and her lips tripped inelegantly over the words. She felt brief abashment over the handicap, shamed at being rendered so unprepared. So limited. All these _feelings_, and each one more disorienting than the last…

First the terror and confusion that came with the Fall, then so much hatred and abject sorrow at seeing her brothers and sisters murdered by one of their own. In cold blood, and with such cruel, _needless_ violence.

"I can still hear angels. I could still hear you."

"_Killed_ them," Hael said. She looked at Castiel with a pained, haunted expression, one that cried out for any solace he could offer. Her voice, so thick and so laden with emotion, bore testament to the overwhelming sense of loss that had devastated her.

"Who did? Who killed these angels?" His voice held a clear note of anger, one that gave her pause. At her silence, Castiel pressed more gently, "Hael, who has done this?"

"Bartholomew." Her lament was briefly overshadowed by fear in speaking the name. Her eyes were downcast now, wounded gaze falling over the weapons she held in each hand. The blood there which she had drawn so inexorably. A new sensation filled her then, and Hael felt ruined. "We are all so ruthless and cold?"

Castiel recognized that dismal feeling as one he often harbored himself. "No, Hael," he said quietly, no longer caring their audience. And it wasn't a lie—not even a white lie. Because for every Bartholomew, there was a Samandriel. Brothers and sisters who gave him hope that they were so much more than just hammers. That they could be kind, gentle. _Devoted_ to the safeguarding of humanity, the one true mission. The _only_ mission that mattered.

Meg watched the two of them, enamored with the unexpected sense of kinship she felt. She knew this was something that Castiel struggled with, but to experience it in herself was startling. It left her introspective and a little… mired. So often she found herself thankful that she no longer required sleep, because if she'd had to face her unconscious thoughts or the dreams that came along with them, Meg wasn't sure she could weather such things. At least if she sought out a form of rest, she could do so in peace. Demons didn't dream. Dreams were a virtue of humanity, after all, and that was a classification she hadn't belonged to in a very long time.

"I'd like you to come with me," Castiel was saying. His words and demeanor were beseeching, and inwardly he prayed to whoever was listening that this angel would heed him. "We've built a sanctuary. If you come with us, I can help you."

Hael was looking at him as though she were terrified to believe him, lest her trust be broken yet again. She looked so small all of a sudden, so completely afraid and unwilling.

Castiel took a step closer, quelling that nagging fear that warned him against reaching out to yet another angel when past experience proved so disastrous. "There is a place for you, Hael."

"To fight?" she surmised wanly.

Her eyes showed such a vulnerability in them, like cracked ice. Castiel immediately shook his head, his refusal of that intense. "_No_. Not if you don't wish to. You can stay," he told her, voice quiet yet firm, "but you will never be forced to fight." There was an assuaging calm about him that was so disarming. It offered such security and _hope_, the words falling over her like a warm veil she could get lost in. "You can have a _life_."

Fresh tears shone in her eyes, rounded and pleading at him in a way she didn't know how to voice. "_Virg_," she whispered. _Home_. Hael wanted to go home.

Castiel's expression crumpled as hot pain stole through his heart. "I know," he told her softly.

"So many dead, Castiel. So many in agony." Her voice became like broken glass. Heavy tears rolled down her cheeks as he approached her, his hands closing gently over hers atop the blades, silently willing her to lay them down. "I still hear screams."

"I know. I know." Castiel was already reaching out, drawing her into his arms and embracing her tightly. Hael let out a shattered breath and collapsed against him with heavy despair. "_Olani oai moooah. Ocaoa_," he said, anguished at the way she began to unravel. _I am sorry. Forgive me_.

The tender gesture seemed only to further loosen the floodgates to the torrent of emotion pouring out of the crippled angel. Hael wept inconsolably against him, the two angel blades hitting the dirt at their feet. "_Noib_," she managed to say, repeating the word several times between cries. _Yes_.

Overhead, clouds gathered in physical manifestation of the suffering display. Rainfall cascaded down in a light mist that was as cleansing as it was rueful, and raw, unbridled grief devoured her as gasping sobs wracked her small frame. Even still, through the haze of bereavement, Hael felt an incredible sense of amity, like a great weight had been lifted from her. She felt enveloped with the intrinsic realization that now, _finally_, she was _safe_.

"_Fetharsi, esemeli_," Castiel soothed in a quiet hush. _Be at peace, sister_. His voice broke over the words, betraying his own distress and how affected he really was. "_Blior_." _Have comfort_.

Everything was gone in that moment except the feel of her trembling shape as she clung to him. Hael was in so much pain and he didn't know how to help her carry it, only that he _needed_ to help her. Castiel was clinging, too—allowing himself to confront the sorrow he felt as the guilt and misery spiraled through him.

"_Teloah_," Hael whispered against him through her tears. _Death_. "_Telocvovim_." _Fallen_.

Castiel cradled his frightened, grieving sibling close. Trapped in the body of an adolescent girl, plagued by the devastating shift of environment and the loss of so many kin, Hael could do little else but stand crying in her brother's arms and trust that he possessed the convalescent strength to keep her afloat.

"_Ol niisa_." _I will come_. "Help. Please."

Castiel smoothed a hand over her hair, closing his eyes. "_Blasn cnila_," he promised, holding tight. His own vitality was reinforced that day and, somehow, he knew he would not let her down. _Could _not let her down. "I will fix this, little sister."

The sky eventually cleared that day, the sun breaking through the cloudbanks with scalding fingers. Its light had almost gotten lost behind the shroud, but soon gray faded to white, white flashed gold, and the warm rays finally reached down to where Hael stood as she became the first angel at Camp Chitaqua.

* * *

_dead angels speak to me sometimes  
giving me advice that I should hear  
wine spills in my blood tonight  
blood spills in my mouth_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Dust swept across his face in the wind, biting at his eyes.

Even the opaque shield of the sunglasses he wore offered little protection against the gathering bowl storm. Castiel frowned, a muscle working in his jaw. It reminded him too much of ash. Even in the choked atmosphere, he could still make out the smell of burnt ozone. Under the sun's oppressive heat, he stood among an amassment of bodies. Sightless eyes of empty vessels stared up at the cloudless sky, the charred imprints of wings fanning out at the their backs. Without feathers, the markings were merely skeletal, which somehow made the sight all the more haunting.

At least twenty dead.

It was a dark mirror of another time. He'd stood in a field of his dead brethren once before, although he had been the executioner then. Castiel considered the bodies before him now, feeling an erratic anger swell from deep within himself that had no clear target. He held suspicions of who was responsible for such butchery, but, even if he was right, he was no closer now to finding Bartholomew than he had been months ago.

On his own for nearly a week, searching for angels proved yet again fruitless. Meg had argued her involvement for days before he'd gone out alone, and now he almost wished he'd taken her with. Holding parleys with angels when you had a demon at your side was nothing if not ill-advised, and yet, despite the rationale behind such a decision, Castiel was pining after her now. The surrounding death left him desolate and resentful, more importantly in need of distraction.

His head pounded, a steady thrum of pain that was developing into a real problem. With it, he felt fatigue. His body protested the strain he'd put over it these past few days, muscles aching in a mild way that would later get worse. Castiel knew the bottle in his jacket pocket was empty. He'd just have to make do without its contents until he returned to camp.

He'd noticed the stag a few minutes ago, watching him from about twenty meters away as it grazed on what little vegetation it could find. His bow was already in hand, arrow notched but not drawn back. Castiel considered over the possible meal, feeling the telltale pull of hunger on his insides. This course of action also meant building a fire, harvesting the meat to cook, and disposing of the remains. Once more, Castiel's eyes fell over the bodies at his feet and he felt a certain reluctance. Exhaling heavily, they dragged back up to the animal that was still watching him as though it recognized his dilemma. Perhaps it even hoped the hunter might go through with it, if the ribs showing through the hide were of any indication.

No. Enough blood had been spilled today.

Castiel returned the arrow to its resting place and slung the bow back over his shoulder, affording the stag a final look before turning away and heading in the direction of his vehicle. Despite that his stomach was empty, he had no real appetite. He opened the back door of the jeep, tossing in his pack and weapons before he climbed into the front seat, wincing a bit when he closed the door behind himself. It was hotter in the confined space, and his headache flared. Castiel's fingers gripped tightly over the steering wheel to still their shaking, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the leather. It sat in shade afforded by the roof, and so it was cool against his skin.

He let out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

After awhile, he keyed the ignition and shifted the vehicle into drive, turning the wheel towards home.

* * *

_wine spills in my blood  
and your blood spills in my soul  
you have no control  
you have no control_

* * *

Not far away, another figure dragged itself painstakingly through the dirt.

His form was battered and his body broken. Overhead, a small murder of crows circled, cawing anxiously. That was as close as they dared get to the creature. The town itself was small enough and abandoned, but in his current state everything felt miles away in distance. In between ragged breaths, the man pulled himself under the cover of the closest shade he could find. There, beside the crumbling wall of the alley, he lay slumped for several minutes.

With great effort some moments later, he propped himself upright, leaning his weight against the stone and mortar. He tipped his head back and exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, allowing himself brief respite before he glanced down at the body he wore. His side was a mass of fiery pain, which was becoming quite the struggle to endure. Carefully, he peeled back the disheveled suit jacket, exposing the angry wound that bled a reverberant, pulsing light into the hot afternoon.

A great measure of disheartenment filling him, the material was placed back gingerly over the evidence of his dwindling strength. His voice was too weak now. He would need to regain his bearings.

And hope that his enemies continued to believe him dead.

* * *

_after the storm I run and run as the rain comes  
on my knees and out of luck, I look up  
night has always pushed up day  
you must know life to see decay  
but I won't rot, I won't rot  
not this mind and heart, I won't rot_

* * *

The little girl's name was Aubrey. She couldn't have been more than five. Currently, she was chasing after a group of other children, all of varying ages, and their boisterous laughter favored the camp with a more jovial façade than the grim atmosphere it usually carried. They kicked up dry leaves and tore around the cabins, dashing into the main path that connected the camp.

Aubrey stumbled suddenly over a rift in the ground, but before she could fall, she was quickly swooped into the air by a pair of arms. The child emitted a squeal of delight as she was embraced, kicking her feet out, and Hael's laughter bubbled over in chorus with the children's as they crowded around her. The young angel was always a willing participant in their games, adored like a sister among them and practically the camp's only means of childcare.

Many of them had no living parents. Many were just orphaned survivors taken in by the camp's inhabitants, or refugees that had been rescued while the crew was out on supply raids. No matter their story, the world as it was now was no place for a child. Hael had taken so quickly to the little ones, caring after them almost as though they were her own.

She lifted Aubrey high, steering her after the others, and the girl shrilled uproariously at the new advantage of height. Castiel had paused at the scene on his way back through the camp, the sight drawing a meager smile out of him despite his mood.

Aubrey had a head of wild, auburn hair that was endearingly in the way of everything more often than it was not. Given that and the similar budding mannerisms, Castiel was at times reminded of Ananiel. The fallen Watcher.

_Anna_.

Yet another sibling lost because of him. Castiel often found himself wishing that he could have saved her. They'd always been so disconcertingly alike, and there was a time when he would have given anything to be just like his elder sister. But then she'd torn out her grace and abandoned them all for the promise of free will. Even after turning her in, Castiel knew they were still so much more alike than he cared to admit.

He'd fallen to fight for humanity, Anna fell to become humanity. Ultimately though, they both fell in love with what they found.

Looking back on himself in those days, Castiel couldn't help but think how utterly _young_ he'd been, which of course was absurd. Seven years stood between that version of himself and the Castiel of now, but such an extent of time was nothing compared to the lifespan of an angel. Seven years was a millisecond, less even, and yet how much had he changed over that brief course of time?

He was drawn out of his dismal thoughts by the sight of Hael beckoning him over. "Join us!" she called to him, and there was a carefree smile splitting her face that belied all the tribulation she'd had to endure this past year.

Hael was happy, and for that, Castiel was glad. "Tomorrow," he promised, intending to retire to his cabin.

"_Cassie_!" rang the sudden excited shriek as Aubrey scrambled out of Hael's arms with complete lack of grace and came running to assault him with a hug. "Cassie! Cassie! Cassie!"

She collided with Castiel's legs and threw her arms around him happily.

When they'd found her a little over six months ago in an open quarantine zone, Aubrey wouldn't speak. Nobody was ever quite sure what she had seen or the extent of what she'd been through, but the child was mute for the better part of two months after they'd taken her in. Castiel remembered carrying her over fifty miles that day. He remembered the Croats nearly decimating them, being covered in sweat and dirt and too much of his own blood, and then hauling aside the fallen sheetrock to scavenge and seeing her there. He remembered being terrified out of his mind and not knowing what the hell to do as this child stared up at him silently, huddled against the dirty floorboards, and him thinking she was too small, _too fucking small_, to be put through such hell. He'd gathered her into his arms without a word. A few miles over, they'd found more children. With their vehicle broken down, the six man crew shepherded their new passengers on foot under the oppressive heat for the remainder of the journey back. Yeager and Irv each carried a child. Sam had one tucked into each side, another boy named Thomas trailing beside him with a two-year-old in his tiny arms. There was only one other girl, Sophie, who saw Meg and instantly reached out her arms with tears in her eyes. Castiel remembered Meg leaving the majority of her weapons behind so that she could carry her.

Dean had brought up the front of their slow-moving caravan, leading as well as safeguarding against any threat that arose. It had been a torturous few days and nights, but they had survived.

Nowadays, Aubrey never seemed to _stop_ talking. Castiel again found himself smiling, unable to help it as the child's joyfulness was infective, and he rested a hand over her head and little shoulder. "Hello, Aubrey."

She began babbling to him about her day, with the extreme and insightful enthusiasm as only a small child could manage. Hael had ultimately been the one responsible for the girl's voice returning. Castiel wasn't sure there was any real method of healing involved, since Aubrey's mutism had been emotional and not physical, but Hael had immediately taken to her. The pair bonded over their mutual disability, as Hael rarely spoke herself in those earlier days, since she knew so little English.

Somehow, they'd developed their own way of communication, one that eventually lead to Aubrey saying her first word ever at Camp Chitaqua—_Hael_. In time, that bond allowed Hael to become less introverted and not so timid with her surroundings and peers. She grew more vocal, learned and adapted quickly to not only Aubrey's speech patterns, but those of an adult's. The marvel stretched both ways, too, because Aubrey was becoming increasingly fluent in Enochian. They'd taught each other, showing one another how to speak, what to say, how to live in the world again.

_Esezomi_, Aubrey called Hael. Castiel remembered the angel teaching it to her, both of them sitting cross-legged and opposite each other, one tiny hand pressed up against the palm of the young vessel. Sounding out the word, expressions lighting up into smiles as it was spoken successfully and with utmost sincerity. _Dearest friend_.

Hael loved Aubrey, and Aubrey positively adored Hael. They were inseparable now, their companionship profoundly touching.

"You're still _it_, Aubrey!" Sophie called, bouncing in her sandals and showing off a megawatt smile.

Aubrey was dashing off again, launching herself into the mob of other children, and Hael laughed helplessly at their antics, moving to stand beside Castiel. The effervescent group wondered after her and Hael assured them she'd join in again soon.

Turning then, much of the previous joy dissolved from her face and she looked on her sibling with somber eyes, reading his mood as though he were a book. "There were more dead today, weren't there?"

Castiel merely nodded, his lips forming a grim line.

Hael lowered her eyes and bowed her head, the gesture as much a measure of respect and acknowledgement of the loss as it was a moment to gather her composure. When she looked back to him, her expression was heavy. "Do you think it was Bartholomew?" she asked softly, dreading the answer and yet needing to know.

Her brother's quiet anger was palpable. "Yes."

Hael felt it, too, unable to quash that inborn, vengeful ire that called out for wrath. "Something must be done," she reflected gravely.

Castiel shook his head, frustration apparent. "He's either blocking me, or is nowhere to be found. What else can I do?"

Hael searched his face, bright eyes seeking the words he was always so reluctant to say. She sought his counsel, respected his decisions, and generally looked up to him as a brother. He was a lighthouse to her in many ways, but his adversity to sharing his own internal trials with her was always worrisome. "Let it go?" she offered quietly.

Castiel stared at her as though she'd suggested something unthinkable. "What?"

Her fingers closed gently over his arm in a gesture of comfort. "You are human, brother. I can see how little sleep you get. You've fought enough for a lifetime." Hael granted him a brittle smile, one that faltered at the edges because she _knew_ none of this was easy. _Heaven_, she knew. "Play with us, or go to your lover. Your friends. Be _happy_, if only for today. Forget just this once about the Fall and what the world has become."

Castiel regarded her, deeply moved by the words despite that he felt he had no right to what they promised. He shook his head, knowing such things were futile. "I can't be happy, Hael. Not doing nothing. Not while angels are still dying."

Hael's smile became bittersweet. "That is why we follow you, you know."

As well as herself, she spoke of the other angels at the camp, of the ones who had died for Castiel during the War, who would die for him still. So many of them were ready to serve as he served, to sacrifice for his cause. Hael willed this knowledge into him, to uplift him. To comfort him, as he had once for her. Too long he'd existed as an island; it was time he knew how valued his leadership was.

Castiel took her efforts gratefully to heart, his eyes softening in what was the beginnings of a smile. It reflected admiration and sadness back at her, the fleeting relief in his posture less onerous now. Reaching out, Castiel grasped her gently by the shoulder and drew her in to press his lips over her forehead. "_Iasnovih_, sister," he murmured in parting.

Hael felt peace in the familial gesture. She merely smiled at him in answer, watching him go.

"Castiel," she eventually called after his retreating back. When he turned, Hael said, "I would like to visit the Grand Canyon one day." Her head canted a bit, almost a mirror image of himself. It took a peculiar sort of courage to admit such a thing aloud, that she had a dream for the future. Somehow, though, she knew she could trust such a confession to him. "Would you come with me, if I did?"

Castiel nodded. "One day, Hael. I would go with you, yes."

Hael's beatific smile at that was lovely. She hurried back to the children then, immediately embraced by them and scaled like a tree as they piled onto her. Aubrey played with her long hair, chattering merrily in her ear as Hael lead them towards the mess hall for lunch.

_Go to your lover. _

Hael's words rang in his head, reminding him of his original objective. Castiel angled back towards the direction of his cabin, the thought of seeing her again after so long an infinitely pleasant one. As it happened, the walkie on his hip crackled to life then and, before a word was even spoken, he already knew who it was.

"_An angel and a demon walk into a bar. What's the first one say_?"

"Ouch," Castiel replied, as he lifted the walkie to his mouth.

Meg's silky laughter filled the channel. "_Not bad. What are you wearing_?"

"The blood of my enemies."

"_One, if you're serious, that's hot. Two, if you're being a sarcastic little shit, I'm proud of you_."

Amusement colored the smirk that Castiel wore. "Good to know."

The line crackled idly for a moment. "_You're not going to tell me, are you_?"

"No."

"_Get your ass home already, would you_?"

_Home_. Castiel briefly put the memory of his slain kin behind him. "I will see you soon, Meg."

He disconnected. Some of his bitterness evaporated and he let out a breath. With renewed resilience and more bounce to his step, Castiel bounded up the wooden stairs of the small porch.

She had a way of… fixing him.

* * *

_man once sang to me  
look at you saving the world on your own  
flying along, I feel I don't belong  
I can't tell right from the wrong  
and you can't see the sky here at night  
so I guess I can't make my way back_

* * *

"We're gonna need to make at least two extra supply runs this week to cover medical needs," Charlie laid out, all business. Gone was the former computer hacker's timidity and skittishness, those traits replaced by a direct, methodical diligence and assertiveness that left her almost unrecognizable. When confronted with a world that did everything to tear you down, a person had to rebuild themselves or die. And since virtually everything technological was now obsolete, Charlie had put forth a disquieting amount of effort into reforging herself a new mold. She looked over the faces of her company as she relayed her sector's stock and reserves. Kevin stood at her side, adding his own two cents when necessary and backing her up if needed, which was rare.

"Toilet paper is running low again, too," he put in.

Dean shook his head. Under his breath, he wondered, "What is it with prophets and toilet paper?"

"Hey, man. You want a chaffed ass, be my guest. Not me."

Five people stood pouring over the maps and lore spread out across the table between them. Documents from the Men of Letters bunker littered the surface as well, but Dean kept the focus on supplies and weapons for this particular gathering.

"Garth, your sector need anything?"

The rawboned hunter shook his head. "Naw, we're still pretty stocked up. Could do with some books, though."

"_Books_?"

"People like to read, Dean. Not saying make a special trip, but if you come across some, more would be nice."

"Garth is right," Kevin said, liking the idea.

Sam and Charlie both nodded their agreement. "And the next run?" asked the latter of the two.

"Working on it," Dean said absently, his tone bordering on impatient. "Once we get a crew lined up, I'll let you all know. Right now we're dealing with some other concerns that take precedence."

Charlie frowned. "Okay, well… med supplies. Sort of a big deal."

"Charlie. I heard you."

"Do these 'other concerns' have anything to do with all the lore you have lying around?" she asked, crossing her arms and eyeing the tabletop pointedly.

"Well, Cas is back now," Sam activated, interjecting so as to avoid any possible arguments. Dean looked like he was gearing towards a camp-wide putdown, his mood about as amicable right now as a damn bear. He may as well have had actual hackles on the back of his neck. Sam went on, addressing the group. "That means more viable manpower. We could take him, Meg, and one of the angels maybe, sometime in the next day or so."

"I could go with," Kevin put in.

Dean shook his head, his tone indicating the decision was final. "Not a chance. I already told you—you're a sentry, not a field scout."

"Whatever," Kevin sighed.

"We good?"

Three various confirmations met his words and Kevin, Garth, and Charlie all took their leave and began filing out of the cabin. Charlie aimed a final look over her shoulder at Dean, saying nothing although the unspoken intent was loud and clear. He met her eyes rigidly, offering nothing in response—unspoken or otherwise.

"Map out the runs sometime tomorrow?" Sam asked, once they were alone.

"Probably won't send anybody out until Friday," Dean vaguely acknowledged, sliding over one of the outlines to his brother. "What day is it even? Sunday?"

"Tuesday," said Sam. "What about Cas and Meg?"

Dean's engrossment of such matters was nonexistent. "We'll worry about Megstiel later. First we deal with this," he said, moving some papers aside to reveal an inscription pertaining to the Knights of Hell.

Sam glanced his way over the plans, wishing his brother would devote more initiative to the weekly missions than to chasing rumors. Castiel and Meg often ran their own show, so it would've been prudent to find out if they had any more missions of their own that week that could interfere with supply runs. "Don't you wanna know what they're doing?"

Dean naturally took his innocuous meaning and turned it sideways. "I never wanna know what those two are doing."

* * *

_but oh my heart was flawed I knew my weakness  
so hold my hand consign me not to darkness  
you can't tempt me if I don't see the day_

* * *

Meg slammed Castiel up against the wall, his shirt already torn open. His back struck the paneling hard and he groaned into her mouth.

"You derive too much pleasure out of throwing me around," he panted when she gave him the chance. He'd barely gotten the words out when she was already back to devouring him, her small hands practically shredding the shirt from him completely.

It was true, she wouldn't even deny it. Call it a demon's shortcoming at the prospect of tossing and angel—former or not—around like a ragdoll. Plus she'd always vowed to get him back for that ring of fire business, and she was still riding high over the fact that he'd played her over the walkie earlier. Little featherduster was becoming a natural. _Gold star!_ "You can take it," Meg hissed against him, biting his lip hard. "And you like it."

"I think you cracked a rib," Castiel muttered, though she was right in that he was her willing victim.

Meg's smile was sharp against his throat, her tongue just as cunning at his pulse. "_Baby_."

Damn it, she _knew_ he hated being called that.

Castiel growled, his hands gripping tight at the back of her thighs and hoisting her up. Meg's legs went avidly around his hips as he swung them around, slamming her into the dent his body had already left behind. She moaned with anticipation, in approval, fingers wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging in.

"Hurry up," she ordered him when he merely started dropping open mouthed kisses across her collarbone and neck. "I haven't seen you all week."

"I missed you, too," he murmured against her skin.

Meg gave his hair a disgruntled yank. "I didn't say that."

Castiel's laughter was deep and warm beside her ear. "Your eagerness was kind of a giveaway."

"Well you _are_ good for sex."

"You missed me."

"Castiel, I swear to—"

His lips were on hers again, abruptly tender and without impatience. They were pliant and gentle against her mouth and Meg had half a mind to punish him for the move, but she was taken so off guard by it that her own fever simmered. At some point, her fingers were back at the base of his skull, curled in his hair, tugging softly. She felt his hand pressing against her neck, his thumb sliding along her jaw, and Meg laid her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. Still beating. Still human. Still so breakable.

Still thudding away for her.

_Belongs to Meg_, the tempo seemed to spell out.

Castiel leaned into her more fully, leaving her deliciously pinned but in a much different way than before. He made sure to leave no space between them. Her lips were abandoned then, to her disappointment, but the contact was soon replaced when Castiel rested his forehead on hers. His eyes slid shut, and he breathed her in deeply.

"I missed you," he whispered again.

It was a remark so loaded with meaning that Meg couldn't have missed it if she were deliberately trying to. Having her not there was a reminder of what life was like without her. What he'd _become_ without her. It left him more shaken than Castiel dared admit, more than he ever would admit. He felt unbearably transparent, but made no effort to disguise what he wore on his sleeve. No more long missions on his own. No more supply runs without her at his side.

"I know, Grumpy," Meg whispered back, combing dark eyes over him carefully.

"Meg?" His eyes were still shuttered away from her, his brow still drawn together pensively.

"Mmm?"

"Don't ever go away again." It was almost a question, an earnest plea to take care of herself even when he wasn't there, even after he was gone. He needed her not to die. If he could stop it, he would. But he wasn't Superman anymore.

"You're stuck with little old me, Clarence, don't worry. Dug myself in like a tick," she gibed goodnaturedly, curling her nails into his flesh a bit for emphasis. Meg's smile was less saucy than usual, softer at the edges. Her eyes were pure chocolate earth—molten brown shining back at him in the low light of their cabin. "No getting rid of me now."

Castiel's eyes opened, and he stared back at her hungrily. "Good."

* * *

_in a city of devils we live  
I can feel the fire of the city lights burn  
it's hard to find angels in hell  
what if I wanted you here right now  
would you fall in the fire burn me down_

* * *

"The Men of Letters did say that the only thing strong enough to kill a Knight is the weapon used by the archangels to destroy them," Sam muttered, scanning over the parchment in his hand for clues.

"Yeah, well we're gettin' nowhere with this shit," Dean grated, shoving at a stack of books which toppled over onto the floor. "Following dead ends for months when that pompous prick was searching for _decades_. We _have_ a good lead, Sam."

"Yeah, going off the word of Crowley."

Dean began to pace, not unlike a lion in a cage. "He wants the bitch dead as much as we do. And as much as he might be a giant rectal orifice with legs, he wouldn't lie about this."

Sam laughed without humor, shaking his head. "_Some lackey of Crowley's gets wind of a protégé of Abaddon's who claimed knowledge of the First Blade._ Yeah, that doesn't sound shady at all."

"Crowley said Dad nabbed the protégé, and he was _right_." Dean held up their father's journal between them to cement his point, then tossed it angrily across the table at his brother so that it skidded to a stop in front of him. "It says so _right there_, and there's a code in the margin for one of his storage lockers. We need to get to that unit."

Sam ran a hand over his mouth, sensing with great regret that this was to become toilsome. "Dean, that storage locker is on the other side of the _country_."

Dean circled back around, shaking his head as though it were nothing. "We'll take Cas, demon bitch number two, and a handful of men—whoever's willing, or just the four of us."

Sam was staring at him as though he'd completely lost his mind. "It's a suicide mission."

Dean looked him dead in the eye. "It's the _First Blade_, Sam. It's _killing_ Abaddon."

The older Winchester's face had taken on the form of a masked thundercloud, banked fury lurking in every harsh line and stark shadow under the muted light. He looked utterly made of stone, and as unfeeling as it, too.

Sam faced the cold bulwark of his brother's temper head on. "Do you realize how many open quarantined zones stand between us and that storage unit? Too fucking many," he retorted, not giving Dean any time to answer. "Or what about looters? Monsters running off the leash with no hunters to regulate them? How about another band of cannibals, because _that_ was fun. Or, hell, Dean—even Abaddon herself. She has demons posted _everywhere_! All up and down the east and west coasts, all over the countryside. How many hives have we found just in a hundred mile radius? I'm really glad this is all so black and white to you, Dean, or did you forget what happened the last time we tried to pull this off?"

Dean's callous stare inevitably went to the patch of cloth over Sam's right eye, a flicker of something akin to guilt buried there until it was replaced by malignant resolve. "Do I gotta repeat myself?" he began in a low, deceptively calm voice. It rose an instant later, transforming into a growl that would have made a lesser man quail. "It's _Abaddon_, Sam! Take a look around you. The world is in the _toilet_!"

Sam merely stared hopelessly at him, losing most of the fight he had, though not for reasons Dean would assume.

He wasn't afraid of his big brother, never really had been. He was afraid _for_ him.

Sighing deeply and heavily, Sam looked at the one constant in his life while at the same time wondering just where the hell he had gone. "You're gonna get your best friend killed, and you don't even care. You're gonna get _yourself_ killed, and you're gonna get _me_ killed." The younger hunter shook his head, his voice quiet with unspoken accusation. "Which is a weird one-eighty, don't you think?"

Dean bristled at the incriminating overtones, a muscle working in his jaw. "Can we not?"

"Ignoring what you did doesn't make it go away, Dean."

"Really? Because if you stop talking about it, it's not there anymore."

Sam closed his eye, turning away in anger. "Damn it."

Dean spread his hands sardonically wide in response, conceding defeat for the moment. "Well, lemme here it then, Sammy."

Sam rounded on him, obvious hurt meshing with the resentment. "What, how you _lied_ to me? It's not as if that isn't a recurring theme with you. I should at least be used to that."

"I didn't have a choice!"

"I was ready to _die_, and you tricked me into being possessed by a fucking _monster_."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It was an _angel_, Sam. Cut the dramatics."

So was Lucifer. Lucifer possessed him. Ruby manipulated him. Azazel put his blood in him against his will. Dean either couldn't or wouldn't understand that—and yet he was the one who was _always _supposed to understand. They took everything from him that made him _Sam_, and free will was all he had left. The fact that Dean was blind to that was as devastating as it was unbelievable.

_Cut the dramatics. _

"Really?" Sam bit back, quelling the hurt he felt. "Because Cas says he's a monster."

"I don't give a shit what Cas said, it's beside the point," Dean argued scathingly. "I'll find Gadreel and I'll put the son of a bitch down myself. You don't have to worry about that. And you know what, how about you kiss my ass? I don't care if you were _ready_ to die, it wasn't in me to _let you_. So you're damn right, I did what I did. I _saved_ you. I may not think things all the way through, but what I do I do because it's the _right_ thing. I'd do it again."

Sam grimaced, frustration boiling. "And that is the _problem_. This stuff _always_ comes back to bite us, Dean. You _know_ that!"

"Then we'll deal with it when it comes."

His brother shook his head in vehement rejection of such an attitude. "You say that now, but—"

"Yeah, and I'll say it again."

"Dean, _enough_. You _see_? Even when you fuck up, you think what you're doing is worth it! Because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad. But you're _not_!"

Dean clenched his fists and his next words were harsh and angry again. "You know what, Sam, it _is_ worth it because I'm lookin' at you in the face right now. You're alive. If that makes you hate me, so be it. I don't give a shit. I'm _poison_, and you've always known that, so deal with. People get close to me, they get killed. That's just how it is. And you know what? I _used_ to tell myself that I help more people than I hurt. That I was doing it all for the right reasons. I used to believe that. Now, I just don't care, you're right about that." Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean barreled right over him. "Because putting Abaddon in the ground is _bigger_ than _all_ of us! I've got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an _apocalypse_ hanging over their heads! If I gotta feed some of them into a meat grinder to save the rest, then that's just how it is. It ain't pretty, but that's _war_."

Sam felt his righteous anger spill over out of pure desperation now. "These people count on you, they _trust_ you—"

Dean stared back at him unflinchingly, and Sam thought it was like looking at a stranger. "They trust me to kill the Knight and to save the world. And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"No… no." Sam had no retort, much less a rebuttal to that. "Something's broken here, Dean. With _you_. With all of this. We just…" He gave a reluctant shake of his head, some of his own fortitude hanging like gossamer from his shoulders. "We don't see eye to eye anymore."

Dean's gaze was cold and flat, his voice carrying all the humanity of a dial tone. "Well, I still have both of mine. Maybe you lost some of your common sense when yours got taken."

Sam blew out a humorless, disbelieving laugh at the mordant dig. He looked away, searching for what he needed to say.

"Listen—"

"Goddamn it, I can't trust you, man. Don't you get it? I want to. I _do_. But tricking me? All this collateral damage you _don't_ care about? I just can't. Not the way I should be able to." His words were frank, but no longer carried the anger and bitterness they had before. Sam was _tired_. Exactly how much so was evident in the tense bow of his heavy shoulders, the worried arc of his brow, and the thin line of his mouth. "I want you to reconsider going through with this. If you don't…? _Yes_, I'll still go with you. And goddamn it, they will too, because we're all just as out of our fucking minds right now as you are. But…" Sam's eyes were pleading, "just once. Be honest with me? Admit that you didn't save me for _me_. You did it for _you_."

Dean blinked, his scowl one of confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't want to be alone. And you needed another soldier for this war. It all boils down to the fact that you can't stand the thought of being alone. You're willing to do the sacrificing, as long as you're not the one being hurt."

His brother's reaction to that was predictably caustic. "Alright, you wanna be honest, Sam? If the situation were reversed, and I was dying? You'd do the same damn thing. And you _know_ it. So don't think you can sit up on your high horse and point fingers at me, because it's not going to happen."

This was still his operation. This was still his call. If Sam didn't like it, tough shit. Being the boss never got anybody friends, and that was just how it was gonna be.

Sam's next words, however, knocked him back a step.

"No, Dean. I wouldn't."

His brother stared at him, half in horror, which was ironic and sad. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

As Dean physically recoiled, Sam elaborated. "Same circumstances, this isn't about me not wanting to save you. You're my _brother_. I'd do anything for you, Dean. You _know_ that. It's about choice. It's about _free will_. We need to be on equal ground here, and the way you look out for me is consuming and selfish and everything you _are_ hinges on whether I'm alive or dead. Dean, I can't be like that. Same circumstances, I would put your choice before myself even if it killed me. I would rather be miserable and alone than take that away from you. I don't know how you don't understand that. You think us being brothers is a one way street, a cure all, but it isn't. I would die for you, but there's a _line_. Especially now, with all this _shit_ we have to live with. You're right about one thing—this _is_ bigger than us." Sam regarded him with penitence, trying to gauge how this conversation would end, and if it would end peacefully. Dean's expression was unreadable, emotionally devoid, which only had him further on edge. "We have to operate with the entire community in mind, now. They're counting on us."

Dean said nothing for a long time, the seconds ticking by agonizingly slow.

"Well, Sam," he began then, his composure misleading as the cold fury seemed to leave him. "You're in luck."

Sam's face fell as he recognized the signs of his brother shutting down.

"Because like I said," Dean went on dispassionately, "I don't give a shit anymore. All that matters is killing Abaddon. So piss and moan all you want about how I betrayed you, or about this mission. _I._ _Don't_. _Care_." His eyes were blank, his delivery toneless. "The mission stands. In or out, do whatever the hell you want."

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"You heard what I said. Dismissed."

* * *

_I burned all the good things in Eden  
we were too dumb to run, too dead to die  
and the world stood still  
my mouth was a crib and it was growing lies  
I didn't know what love was on that day  
I'd kill myself to make everybody pay_

* * *

Meg ran her fingertips gently down Castiel's back as he dozed. He was lying on his stomach, face pressed into the crook of his arm over the pillow. She knew he wasn't sleeping, but the waves of exhaustion drifted off of him like smoke. He made a soft noise when she pressed down a little harder over a particularly sore muscle. Her eyes roamed over his skin, falling on the long scar left behind from a machete blade that traversed from one shoulder to the opposite hip. It was finally starting to fade. He'd collected others over the past many months, but this was the worst of it.

All this lattice work of marks and yet she couldn't see the scars where his wings had been. There was just nothing.

Though it took a great deal of her pride to admit it, even to just herself, she missed those wings. Unlike a human, she could see them just as he could see her true face. Powerful, terrifying things. _Beautiful_ things. Smoldering embers caught within their nebulous depths, Meg remembered him standing in a graveyard of burnt out husks, having just smote an entire horde of demons. She remembered being utterly incapable of looking away from the insurmountable and deadly beauty of those arching wings, furling at his back. Transcendental power had crackled around him in reply to her errant darkness, while she saw just how ashen their feathers were from all those sieges on harrow Hell.

Did she ever miss them.

"Nothing here anymore but flesh and bone, Clarence," Meg said quietly, the name somehow all the more accurate now.

Castiel breathed in deeply, saying nothing for a long time. Slowly then, rising up on his elbows and then his side, Meg felt his arm slip around her waist to pull her back against his chest. He was always so clingy when they were in bed, especially after they'd had sex. So irrationally desperate to be close to her and assure himself that she was very real and not going anywhere. Terrified that, if he woke up, she might be gone or it have all been a dream. That she'd be dead again.

Castiel may have said that he wouldn't keep her here if she chose to leave, but Meg would've bet the hellfarm that he would have followed her.

"Missed me, huh?" she needled goodnaturedly.

"Mm. I told you I did," he muttered back, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. He nuzzled the soft skin there, the fingers of his hand drawing tired patterns over her hip. Meg recognized the shapes, knowing that, if they were drawn in blood, they could bind and trap her. Payback, she supposed, for the time she once drew a sigil on his chest with mayonnaise while he slept. Castiel hadn't found it as funny as she did.

Meg twisted around in his arms so that she could look at him. "You know, I'm pissed at you." Castiel didn't seem concerned at all, which only caused her scowl to deepen. "Going on runs for Kevin and Garth is like being back on the rack. Just so you know."

"How terrible for you."

Her growl was more endearing than frightful. "What about you? Anymore halos at the camp?"

Castiel's gaze drifted away from hers. "No," he said quietly. Well, she knew what that meant. He diverted the topic impressively. "Any trouble while I was gone?"

"Your frat brothers behaved themselves," Meg assured him.

Sometimes having angels at the camp was a real asset, but there were times when such things backfired enormously. After all, throwing a bunch of supercharged egos into a confined space was about as well-advised as one might expect. The week before Castiel had left, a dispute had arisen between two male angels, each from separate factions. For _hours_, he'd mediated between the two—Meg catching enough pieces of the Enochian conversation to know that it would not end pretty.

Predictably, a fight had broken out not long after, which resulted in Castiel putting a blade between the ribs of the aggressor. With that threat nullified, he'd turned on the other then, spelling out in no uncertain terms that fighting in the camp would not be tolerated. Castiel wanted to save his family, but if it came down to it, he couldn't put the human cohabitants at risk for the sake of loose cannons. And while he may have had the mortal stench of humanity afflicting him now, Castiel was still very much the alpha and arbiter among the angels. No one ever challenged him after that day.

He was also aware that the only other angel whose company Meg actually enjoyed was Hael's. Their relationship was… strange, and somewhat endearing.

* * *

"_This dark thing… she is a demon," Hael said upon their first encounter, considering the creature before her with an odd measure of curiosity and bewilderment. She looked back at Castiel once more. _Demon_, her eyes seemed again to tell him, wondering if he might be confused. _

"_Meg is my friend, Hael. She saved my life. You can trust her."_

_Hael looked uncertain, and perhaps a little like she thought her brother was insane. But then she'd stunned the both of them. _

"_Then she is my friend, too." _

_Meg's reaction to that was predictably anticlimactic. "Yay. An angel gal pal," she deadpanned, but it was sincere in a way that surprised him. Maybe even surprised herself. _

* * *

The walkie beside the bed crackled to life suddenly, interrupting the halcyon quiet that hung communally between them. That particular one only ever utilized the private channel shared between the brothers and Castiel, and so it came as an inconvenient surprise that demanded his attention. It was supposed to be an emergency line, although Dean frequently liked to abuse it whenever he felt the need. "_Hey. Iceman_," came the predictable voice of the oldest Winchester, although the tone was clipped and dripping with displeasure. "_Put some pants on and get over here for a mission briefing_."

Oh, superb. Dean was pissed about something and unapologetically prepared to be a hostile pain in the ass.

Castiel groaned, shutting his eyes in irritation.

"Oh, look. Your mother's calling," Meg snipped.

Detangling himself from his companion, Castiel rolled over and plucked the walkie from the small stand with a little more force than required. "I'm busy, Dean."

"_Yeah, I don't really care. Tell your demon girlfriend she can play with your angel blade later, we've got more important things right now_."

"Whatever it is, it can wait," Castiel argued. "I've just returned from my own _things_. I haven't slept in over thirty-six hours, I'm hungry, and you're annoying me."

"_Hear that? That's the sound of my invisible violin_."

Castiel's face scrunched up in agitated bewilderment. "_What_?"

"_It's an expression, dumbass. It means I couldn't give two shits_."

"Well, we're in agreement, then."

"_Castiel, so help me, if you don't_—"

The walkie was tossed away to the other side of the room, clattering against the wall loudly. Castiel sank back into the pillows with a surly growl, running his hands over his face in exasperation. "What crawled up his ass?" Meg chimed mordantly beside him.

"I don't know," Castiel muttered from beneath his hands, not even addressing the idiom.

He looked so completely human in that moment, and Meg realized then how often she forgot that he was. She skirted her nails lightly across his ribs, where she knew he was sensitive. "Want me to kick his ass?" He flinched a little under her ministrations, shying away from them. Meg's fingers chased him. "_Please_ let me kick his ass?"

His breath came out in a short huff of laughter, hand snatching at hers. "Meg."

She watched him as he sat up, muscles bunching in his stomach and shoulders, and her mouth pinched into a thin line at his laughable predictability. "You're going, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm going," he grumbled petulantly—clearly as pissed with himself as he was with Dean.

Meg lounged back into the sheets, dark hair spilling over his pillow as a consummate reminder of what he was leaving behind. "You know, your being a windup toy would be adorable if it weren't so pathetic." She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, raising her eyebrows at him. Castiel's expression was one of self-loathing and visible desire.

"You needn't say it. I'm well aware."

Meg's smile was broad and saccharine as he regarded her over his shoulder. "But you don't make that grouchy face if I keep it to myself."

Castiel heaved a rankled but affectionate sigh, getting to his feet and pulling on his jeans. "And what will you do?"

"Absolutely nothing for at least another hour. Jealous?"

Castiel threw on a shirt and toed on his boots. "If I said no, would you believe me?" he asked, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

Meg merely smirked.

Near the door, he gathered his usual weapons, electing to leave the bow behind. "It wouldn't kill you to pretend."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't," she drawled pleasantly from behind him, stretching out like a cat.

As he reached for his sidearm, Castiel hesitated, observing with grim disconcertion at the way his fingers shook. A restless, almost nauseous buzz settled in the pit of his stomach like an anchor and he frowned, curling them into a brief fist to still the tremors. Shoulders erringly tensed, Castiel shook it off, grabbing the Jericho 941 and tucking it with a little more force than necessary into the holster under his arm. He reached then into the top drawer of the dresser, gripping the bottle of pills there with some measure of relief. He downed several and tucked the remainder into his jacket pocket for later use.

"More poppers?" drifted Meg's voice from the bed.

Castiel wouldn't look at her. "Need something to keep me fast."

"Mm. Thought it was just headaches."

He ignored the unspoken implication there, moving for the door.

"Hey."

When he looked back, Meg was tossing him an apple from the bedside bowl. "Eat something. Nurse's orders."

Castiel gave her a worn smile, catching it deftly. "I'll return soon."

"Try not to cause an apocalypse while you're gone, would you?"

He merely took a large bite out of the apple, offering a wink before the door could close behind him.

* * *

_I'm sinking, then I'm torn in two  
so when you see me come up for air  
don't try to hold me down, just save me now  
feels just like I'm underwater and can barely breathe  
dying in the bed that I have made  
did I bring this to myself?  
can I get out alive?_

* * *

"Fuck you, Winchester!" yelled Risa, throwing something inscrutable and heavy at Dean's head, which he narrowly dodged. It struck the side of his cabin with a loud clamor, knocking some siding loose.

"Yeah, well fuck you, too, Risa!" he hollered after her retreating back. "Do us both a favor and stay the hell away this time!"

Risa stormed furiously past several of the other men who immediately afforded her a wide berth, looking anxiously between the two feuding lovers before hurrying off to avoid any crossfire.

Great. Dean and Risa were at each other's throats again. Which probably meant any briefings would be delayed or cancelled. Which meant Dean had bullied him out of bed with Meg for nothing. Castiel regarded the scene with displeasure, frowning in concern after Risa and subsequently offering Dean a disapproving look as he approached the cabin.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean snapped. "You don't even know what happened."

Castiel remained unimpressed with the virulent welcoming, his expression impassive. "Do I want to?"

Dean rolled his eyes, marching halfways down the steps only to drop down onto one of the last few so that he could sit and scowl outwardly. "She thinks I was with Jane last night."

"Were you?"

Dean's response to that was to glare indignantly.

Castiel merely lifted a skeptical eyebrow, and the hunter turned away from the scrutiny with open derision. "I was in her cabin, but I wasn't… _in her cabin_," Dean said, as though that explained everything.

Castiel remained largely critical and unsympathetic. "That was foolish."

"Yeah, well who asked you," muttered Dean, frowning at the air in front of his own face. His anger seemed to have abated, somewhat.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel tried instead, taking up a seat beside him.

"He's pissed at me, too. People never like it when you tell 'em the truth, Cas."

Castiel grunted in a distant but acknowledging way, taking another bite out of his apple and then pulling a face. His body was due for nourishment, but somewhere between his cabin and these steps, his appetite had deserted him. There was a hollowed-out feeling somewhere in the vicinity of his gut, similar to hunger and yet not at all. The mouthful of fruit he swallowed had little taste, and his stomach protested the additional sustenance it didn't want.

"What's with the constipated look?"

"I do not look constipated," Castiel retorted, leveling Dean with a bitchfaced look of indignance. He frowned then at the apple in his hand. "I'm just not hungry," he said, tossing it away. "Why is Sam angry with you?"

"The usual," Dean hedged.

"Gadreel?"

"Of course. And my stupidity in general, apparently."

"Well, you were stupid for the right reasons," Castiel told him, his tone indicating that Dean shouldn't worry about it. After all, he could relate. Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons was a common inadequacy he displayed, a little _too_ often. Castiel wasn't even sure that what he did was for any right reason at all. It felt selfish. He didn't care one way or another the semantics, but it was most definitely on the moral fence.

"Whatever," Dean groused, his opinion of his own actions reflecting the aggravation he felt. "I got played."

"I thought I was saving Heaven," Castiel reminded him, the self-deprecating smirk he wore making Dean laugh a little. "I got played, too."

"So we're both a couple of dumbasses, is what you're saying."

Castiel's consideration of that was fatalistically cavalier. "I was going to go with 'trusting,' but yes. We are dumbasses."

Dean snorted. "So you don't think Sam's right?"

"About?"

_About me_. Sam believed he was off the rails—worried constantly over the man he was becoming, the decisions he was making. His brother expected him to make changes, gain _perspective_, be the man he had been a decade ago. But that wasn't about to happen, because Sam was wrong.

He was not _evil_. Dean wanted only to kill every vile son of a bitch in his path, ruthlessly, and without someone constantly looking over his shoulder. Without needing to give a shit as to whether he was stepping on anybody's feelings. This was 2015. They were _living_ the apocalypse. _Feelings_ were obsolete. And just how many times had those closest to him betrayed him, lied to him, deserted him? Allowing himself to become this brutal war machine had its own advantages, the least of which was effectiveness. It granted him the outlet to express all the pent up hurt, anger, rage, and disappointment that had been brimming beneath the surface for years. _Purge your demons_, as the saying went. Dean might have been miserable, he might even be heartless, but someone had to be the bad guy. Someone had to get the job done, because that's exactly what this was. It was still a _job_. Abaddon had to die, and Dean would be the one to kill her. If Sam abhorred his methods in doing so, then so be it. The world was now the archetype of _hope lost_, but someone had to avenge it. _Damn right_ he was off the rails.

"Let's just say he thinks my methods could use some… adjusting."

Castiel shrugged, leaning back against the steps. His tone grew quiet. "We're all going to die bloody. Why postpone the inevitable?"

"Jesus, you're a cynic these days," Dean chuckled.

"I'm a realist, Dean."

It had been so long since he and Cas talked like this. And it was a relief to know that he wasn't the only one on grounds still with a brain. Although, admittedly, Dean was well aware how deliberately vague he was being. A part of him recognized the villainy of it—using Castiel's loyalty to his own advantage. That same part of him was ignored as easily as he'd dismissed Sam's earlier cautioning. "Well, it's refreshing to see that the stick has been removed from your ass. At least that tiny terror is good for something."

"Meg's good for a lot of things."

"That's fucking gross."

"Dean, shut up."

Dean looked sharply at his friend, bristling. "Spare me the white knight bullshit, Cas—"

Castiel wore a strange expression, staring ahead sightlessly. "_Shh_."

He'd gone utterly still, his eyes seeming to be a darker blue than usual, almost like a darkening sky before a storm rolled in. They flickered uncertainly, and Castiel seemed to be straining for something.

He was _listening_, Dean realized, now comprehending what was happening. "What? What do you hear?"

Castiel grimaced, a protest of pain hissing between his gritted teeth as the sensation of a hundred invisible needles lanced through his skull. It left his ears ringing, his eyes seeing spots, and his body shaken. But when it passed, he looked up sharply, his eyes wide. The aftershocks of the splitting headache were forgotten at the voice still echoing in his brain.

"Cas? What is it?"

Castiel felt a rush of visceral emotion go through him, suddenly very aware of his heart pounding hard against his borrowed ribcage. A feeling like someone had just poured ice water down his back assaulted him. "Not what, _who_." He turned to his friend, alarmed. "It's Ezekiel."

Dean stared at him in shock. "Wh—_Ezekiel_? But—"

"The _real_ Ezekiel. He's alive."

Castiel shot to his feet and Dean scrambled after him, "Whoa, whoa, hang on! Where the hell is he?"

Castiel was already on the move. "About ten miles out."

"How do you know this isn't some kind of trap?"

"It's _Ezekiel_," Cas reminded him with urgency, as though the mere suggestion were unthinkable. Time was imperative right now, and Dean was wasting it with such questions. A painful throbbing was building steadily in his temples and there was a vague buzzing in his ears. He bore down hard, willing the discomfort away so that he could focus on what needed to be done. "I meant what I said to you—he's to be trusted. His call was one of distress, I think he may be hurt. I'm going for him."

"_Shit_," said Dean, throwing caution to the wind. He fell into step beside Castiel, matching his pace. "Alright, well let's pony up."

Castiel's head jerked around to stare at him. "What?"

"Yeah, I'm coming with you."

Castiel didn't even have a chance to question the matter before he was running right into somebody else, oblivious to what was in front of him. He looked down in surprise to see Meg staring up at him with a questioning look.

"Where's the fire?" she inquired of his panic-stricken demeanor. The beginnings of worry converged in her dark eyes as they searched his face, demanding answers out of him.

Castiel regarded her with penitence, starting forward again. "I'm sorry, Meg, I have to go."

"Angel SOS," said Dean dismissively by way of explanation, brushing past her.

"Oh, look at that. Already dressed and ready," Meg volleyed back airily, and she too fell into step beside him.

Castiel though stopped immediately, putting a staying hand over her shoulder. "No. Meg, you need to stay here. _Please_," he appealed to her affronted expression, growing very serious. "I don't know how he will react to a demon. He will listen to me, but I'm not certain how injured he is, and he may react on instinct." It was an inborn defense mechanism in angels when gravely wounded, that their grace strike out against anything it perceived as a threat, no matter how banal. The sense of anxiety was like a living thing growing inside him, and Castiel willed her to understand. "He could kill you, Meg."

Oh, but she knew all too well that fear he harbored. More than he would ever realize. Than he could ever remember. More importantly, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to say no to him anymore. Castiel would ask her to jump, and Meg's mouth would wonder 'how high?' before she could stop it.

Her face had taken on a clouded disfavor, but it softened then and she gave a reluctant, understanding nod. "Fine. But you owe me, Castiel."

Dean observed the exchange with a mounting cluster of impatience and grudging awareness. He said nothing, allowing them the moment they needed, however brief it was.

Castiel held her eyes for just a second more. "We shouldn't be long," he assured her.

So then why did she feel this incredible pit in the bottom of her stomach? Meg muttered a reply, trying to quell the worry building in her chest, and watched them go.

Not long after the tires of the jeep were spitting gravel and Garth was closing the gate behind them, Meg felt Sam's presence beside her.

"Where's Dean going?"

He sounded uninterested despite his asking, and faintly embittered. Meg frowned, kindred at least where the bitterness was concerned. "Headed out with our broken treetopper. Angel crisis."

She felt Sam's eyes on her, penetrating. "You're not staying behind."

Excellent, so her distress was not only palpable, it was predictable. "Who made you Nostradamus?"

The bite to her retort was almost a physical attack, and Sam snorted. "You're an open book, Meg," he said, confirming what she already knew.

She abandoned the giant hunter to his emoting, something else snagging her attention.

Hael stood anchored and unmoving as a statue, unaware of the children's voices as they prodded and danced around her. Beside her, Aubrey stared up in silent concern at her face, gripping Hael's hand tightly in her own. The angel stared ahead, unseeing as Castiel had been. Her parted lips pressed into a worried frown, anxiety filling her.

An errant darkness seemed to materialize beside her, and Hael snapped out of her daze when it spoke. "Got a sec, pumpkin?"

The familiar sardonic voice brought her a strange measure of relief in that moment. Hael's bright eyes darted to the demon it belonged to, dread gripping her. "Something's wrong."

Heaven's most adorable teenager looked ready to burst at the seams, reflecting the urgency she already felt. "Very," Meg affirmed, speaking quickly. "Your brother's an idiot. How do I fix it?"

"Meg." The angel's tone was deeply worried, beseeching. "Help him. You need to help him." Castiel was distracted, only focused on the one he sought. It left him blind. "Go to him. _Now_."

The quiet ring of holy steel filled the space between them as Hael held up her blade for the demon to take. Meg's resolve was a crushing force, devoid of deviation. Her eyes slicked to an oily black.

"Point me at him."

* * *

_turn off all the lights  
let the morning come  
now there's green light in my eyes  
and my lover on my mind  
everybody sees I love him_

* * *

"We still on track?"

"Yes," Castiel replied stiffly, his grip tightening on the wheel. He was staring straight out the windshield, practically unblinking. "Why did you offer to come with?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked him.

A muscle was working anxiously in Castiel's jaw, his expression unreadable. Every now and then, Dean would notice him listening again, eyes narrowed against the setting sun. "You've made your opinion of keeping angels at the camp quite clear, Dean. Now suddenly you're not only willing, but insistent upon it?" His tone was not accusatory, but the note of suspicion was hard to miss.

Dean sighed. "Look… you told me Ezekiel was a good soldier, and I believe you. We need that right now, and maybe he can undo some of the shit his copycat left us with. And hell, I don't know, maybe I gotta make things right with the guy. All I'm saying is… if there's even the slightest chance he can help us find Gadreel, I want him on the team. And if he's you with batteries like you say, maybe he can even help with Abaddon. We need every good soldier we can get right now." Yeager, Irv, Mathew. Their forces were dwindling almost by the hour, it felt like. _Any_ backup was welcome these days, especially if that backup had the shelf life of an angel and was good at laying down wrath.

"So you want to use him."

"Yeah, I do," Dean said, completely unapologetic. "But that doesn't mean I don't wanna help him."

Castiel frowned at the somewhat evasive tactic. His expression was stormy as he stared out the windshield, and Dean saw a shadow of something almost baleful race across his face, but then it was gone. The hunter opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel silenced whatever he was going to say.

"Make no mistake, Dean. You would die for your brother. I would die for mine as well."

It was a warning wrapped in a question, said with quiet force. It said that Castiel would protect his family, even from a Winchester. It asked, sincerely, that his friend might never let it come to that. Dean sat back in his seat, saying nothing, although no answer was required.

They'd relapsed into more strained silence when suddenly Castiel was slamming on the brakes. "_Mavialqvasb_," he seemed to curse, throwing the vehicle into park.

Dean took his cue, hurrying after his friend who was already shoving the driver's door shut behind himself, tearing across the road and into the small deserted town. A haunting cry drew their gazes upwards and there, floating on the breeze, was a large crow circling overhead. Its broad wings were extended, motionless except for the wind that ruffled its black wingtips as it soared high above them. Castiel read the sign for what it was and ignored the dull twinge of envy he felt at the bird's blithe freedom. If scavengers were still scouting the area, it meant there was something here to be found.

Castiel went still, listening.

Dean had an angel blade drawn and ready, in case Ezekiel was not the only angel they found. His face had fallen into stern lines, expression vigilant against the still oppressive heat of the setting sun. "He still alive?"

"It's faint," Castiel murmured. His brow was knit with concentration, his breaths shallow to reduce his body's natural movement. Almost as though he were using it as an antenna he didn't dare readjust. Dean watched him with some measure of fascination, though he still wished his friend had the rest of his bag of tricks, too.

Castiel activated. "_There_," he said, abandoning his post and disappearing into a nearby alleyway.

They found the body not far in, slumped over against the crumbling wall. Castiel dropped down beside his brother, barely even registering that Dean was still with him. His hands pressed urgently against the broad shoulders encased beneath the wrinkled suit jacket, trying to rouse the angel into consciousness. "Ezekiel."

Ezekiel's vessel was tall, strong in body only, for his appearance was haggard and broken. There was blood on his clothing and a clear wound torn angrily into his side. His dark skin held a wan shade because of how weak he was, and his chest barely rose in time with his breaths.

"This is the real Ezekiel?" Dean asked from beside him, and Castiel nodded.

"Yes," he said softly, blue eyes combing over the angel's face in concern. Castiel shook him again, careful of his injuries. "Brother?"

Ezekiel began to stir, dark eyes fluttering open. "Castiel…"

"I heard your call. How badly damaged is your vessel?"

Ezekiel made a faint noise of pain, lifting his head. "Too… Too close…" His sonorous voice was pitched low and trembled with the effort it took to speak. A soft resonance weaved through it, the mark of his grace leaking out into the physical world. His chin dipped, head lolling to the side as he began to slip against the brick and mortar.

"Hey, man," Dean said, reaching out to keep him from sliding down again. He exchanged a look of unease with Castiel before turning back to Ezekiel. "How you doin'? Can you stand?" As much as they appeared to be alone, it was never a good idea to remain immobile for long when outside the camp's secure borders.

"I cannot seem to move…"

"It's alright, don't worry. We'll get you outta here."

"Dean, take his arm. I'll lift from this side."

"_Too close_…"

"He needs a safe environment to heal. We—" Castiel looked up, alarmed. "Dean, you have to go."

The air itself seemed to buzz with some weird electricity then, one that sparked feelings of emergent and pervasive dread. Dean didn't need to hear angel radio to know that something was about to go very wrong.

"_What_?"

"Still here," Ezekiel managed, more urgent. "Killed his followers… more coming… wounded."

"_Dean_," Castiel stressed, looking inexplicably murderous.

"_Who's_ here?" barked the hunter, demanding answers to what the fuck was going on.

"_Bartholomew_ is here," Castiel growled, a cold fury taking hold of him. His restraint finally cracked and his temper split wide open. "I can feel him now, on the move. He's injured and unable to block me." His determination was palpable, though still without a clear target as far as Dean could tell. Castiel didn't leave him guessing for long. He propped his brother forward into Dean's arms. "Go. Take him."

"Cas—"

"You heard what I said." Castiel's eyes bored into his with righteous resolve. "Ezekiel has answers that I don't, and you said it yourself—he's _me_ with batteries, and therefore more valuable." He rose sharply, blade in hand, the darkness within him gathering. "I'm going after him."

The contrast was severe. When Castiel had spoken those same words in referring to Ezekiel, they were protective. Familial. When he said them now, it was the polar opposite. This arrangement held a clear threat, a promise of retribution.

"_Cas_."

"Dean, for once in your life, do as I ask!"

The hunter merely held out his hand, impassive. "Keys."

Castiel tossed them over, glad that Dean had not intended to argue. "Don't come for me until he's safe."

* * *

_how many times have I prayed  
that I would get lost along the way  
dream with the feathers of angels stuffed beneath your head  
the regulator's swinging pendulum_

* * *

Castiel pressed his advance as he crept between buildings, trying to balance the conflicting needs for both speed and stealth. He gripped the handle of his blade tight, the surface reflecting the last vestiges of sunlight back at the sky. He strained his limited human senses, scouring the airwaves for any trace, any clue, that would lead him closer to his quarry.

Bartholomew was near, very near. Castiel could _feel_ it, could hear the battered notes ringing in his ears that assured him he was not wrong.

"Look who it is," said a ruined voice, the syllables rasping together in a manner that was disconcerting. "The garrison's own little Icarus."

Castiel tensed, feeling a visceral spike of dark intent arrow through his body. He turned to his left, blue eyes brilliant with suppressed anger, and watched as a long shadow stepped out from the barren threshold of a record store and into the light. "Bartholomew."

The angel was bloody and breathing awkwardly—one of his arms hung off oddly, torn at the socket. The vessel would need repair soon. He stood tall nonetheless, chin raised in superiority so that he could look down his nose at the human before him. "Castiel. I hear you've been looking for me."

The need to do violence to this creature for all the destruction and loss he had caused almost overwhelmed Castiel in that moment. "How many angels have you killed?"

"I gave them a _choice_."

"A choice like you gave Ezekiel?" Castiel couldn't help the smug smirk that ghosted across his features. "I saw what he did to your men. What he's done to _you_."

"More are coming," Bartholomew said with no small measure of surety. "And Ezekiel will be dealt with. I only kill those who say no."

Castiel's regard of that was murderous. "I have heard those words before," he said lowly, edging closer.

Bartholomew's expression was stern, disapproving. "Yes, from Uriel, as I recall. An accomplished soldier, until you and that penitent murdered him."

"_Uriel_ was a follower of _Lucifer_," Castiel growled out. "Is that what you are, Bartholomew?"

Sudden, righteous venom colored Bartholomew's words. "What I am is a _visionary_. My goal is to raise our kind back to Heaven and destroy those who stand in my way or refuse to pledge their allegiance to me. You want to know my death toll? The lives I've taken in pursuit of this campaign? _Hundreds_. And how many have _you_? Your hunger for blood far outweighs mine, Castiel. And there are other factions. Others you have to fear than just me."

Castiel met his eyes with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly. "I will stop them, too."

Bartholomew was just another bully in a long line of others he had already dealt with. Uriel. Raphael. Naomi.

"Yes, I think you truly believe that."

The swift arc of Castiel's blade was stopped short as Bartholomew caught him around the throat with his working arm.

"I always admired your tenacity," the angel confessed, as though he were remarking on the color of the sky. Castiel struggled against his grip, the blade falling at their feet. Slowly, excruciatingly, Bartholomew raised his mangled arm. Tendons and bone ground against one another with jarring effort, and the grimace he wore looked disturbingly like a smile. Giving a final twist, the arm slid back into its socket with a sickening crunch. Now, Bartholomew did smile. Rearing back with that same arm, he used it to deliver a hit that sent Castiel sprawling into the dirt at his feet.

The angel kicked the blade away, and it went skidding far out of reach. "Look at you, Castiel, amid the muck. You've become one of the ants. You've fallen further than _any_ of _us_." Bartholomew approached the fallen rebel at a leisurely pace. "Serving humans, lying with demons. Selling yourself at the nearest crossroads." Here, he granted Castiel a disingenuous smile. "But always and forever _earnest_."

Castiel barely had time to register the sight of Meg before she was launching herself onto Bartholomew's back out of nowhere. The angel's startled grunt went unnoticed as her own blade arched high and bore down, piercing flesh and bone just a hairsbreadth away from his vessel's heart. Bartholomew snarled at the pain, barely stopping her hands from pressing the blade any further into his shoulder. Enraged, he then reached up and grabbed her by the back of the neck and hair, twisting to hurl her down hard at the ground. His outcry of pain became a disbelieving laugh when he saw who it was. "And what's this?" he wondered, already knowing the answer and perversely pleased by it.

"Meg!"

Bartholomew lifted a hand which caused an invisible force to pin both of his prey back into the dirt. "It's the demon you've been keeping. I hoped I'd get the chance to meet her face to face." He glanced at his shoulder and the flickering stream of light that stole through the folds of his clothing. "That was impolite." Cold eyes slid menacingly back to Meg. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you, little thing?"

Meg's fiery glare was defiant. "Let me up, you piece of shit, and we'll see who does what to who." Her lips pulled apart in a fierce smile. "You wouldn't be the first angel I've killed. Not even the first one I've killed for him."

Bartholomew smiled, slow and predatory. "She is sort of magnificent, isn't she?" he mused aloud, only half-addressing his brother.

Castiel struggled upright, fury swelling inside him. "_Don't you touch her_."

"Very well, then, I won't." Narrowing his eyes, Bartholomew raised his already outstretched hand, curling his fingers into a spiteful fist. "I'll simply unmake her."

Meg threw her head back in a devastating scream that shook her entire body, eyes snapping to black before they wired shut against the celestial energy that began to tear her apart from the inside.

Castiel shouted in protest, horrified realization washing away his anger as he struggled vainly to reach her.

Meg felt as though her insides were being hollowed out. The beast inside her instinctually recoiled in wild desperation, slamming against the walls of her host in search of escape. Another thunderclap of soundless energy knifed through her in echo, again and again. She writhed under a suffering insurmountable, feeling her darkness being scorched out under the onslaught. She vaguely heard Castiel pleading in a rushed, higher voice that didn't even seem to belong to him. Meg crumpled in on herself and continued to scream, unable to achieve anything else, her demon voice merging with her body's as the earth spun around her.

"_Stop_!" Castiel's thundering exclamation would have shook the foundations of every building on the block if he'd still been an angel. Their eyes met, staunch horror reflected in his while the onyx surface of hers remained pools of anguish. He seethed, panicking, losing his mind. Willing her torment to stop even though he could do nothing for her or himself.

Bartholomew left Meg to writhing in pain on the ground, considering them both in a falsely lamenting way. "_For they no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved. No sooner they sighed but they asked one another the reason, and so sought the remedy. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will die together_," he recited mockingly. The bastardized Shakespearean verse seemed to amuse him, and Bartholomew shook his head. "You want to know the definition of irony, Castiel? Sacrificing everything for the very thing designed to destroy you."

The words struck him, moved inside him as a living entity as Castiel stared helplessly at her.

"You can't save her. Part of you knows it."

Aching sorrow slowly gave way to solemn veneration, to desperate determination. Castiel's eyes became hard, his expression intense. The fury returned in force, consuming him. Bolstering him. An arctic resilience spread throughout his fortitude as he began to fight against the angelic hold over him.

"_No_."

Bartholomew stared in stunned dismay as his mortal brother began to stir. _Impossible_. "How in hell…?"

Castiel growled with exertion, rising higher and higher until he was nearly to his feet. Bartholomew struck him back down, indignant. He staggered hard, dropping to one knee, hand braced on the ground to steady himself. A small stream of blood fell from his mouth.

"You are impressive, even in this broken form," Bartholomew remarked, coming to tower over him. "And so finally it's come to this. For months you've sought me out, and now here I am. Tell me, little brother… have you come to offer me a place?"

"No." Castiel spit out more blood, wiping it from his face with the back of his hand. "I came here to kill you."

Bartholomew tossed his head back and laughed. "What, no turning the other cheek, even after all this? I'm surprised at you." He drew back and delivered a stunning kick to Castiel's ribs, knocking him completely down.

Castiel felt something break, and he was unable to bite back the yell that clawed its way up his throat. His arms cinched around his protesting torso as he lie there, trying to catch his breath. Above him, Bartholomew was loosening his vessel's necktie in jerking motions.

"You always thought you were better than me. Well, look at you now, down in the dirt." The bitter animosity in his voice contrasted sharply with his relaxed pose, revealing the rivalry there. "I'm going to take it out your ass, Castiel."

Determinedly, impossibly, Castiel worked himself partway up after lying there for several moments. He cradled his side with one arm, and Bartholomew noticed the sudden sight of the pistol in Castiel's other hand and laughed harder, his tone enormously condescending.

"And what are you gonna do with _that_, other than piss me off?" he challenged.

Faster than Bartholomew would have ever given the battered human credit, Castiel spun and rose quickly, firing off round after round rapid-fire into the angel's vessel. With each shot, Castiel advanced, Bartholomew stumbling slightly under the hits—thrown just enough off guard. When the magazine clicked empty, before Bartholomew could recover and realize that, in getting to his feet, Castiel had taken up the demon's dropped blade, that blade was being driven up into his heart. Once. Twice. And again.

Bartholomew roared in pain as light exploded outwards from his vessel and the fatal hit. Castiel twisted the blade hard, the dying knell of grace reflected in the unforgiving blue of his eyes. He withdrew it then with a shove, allowing Bartholomew's dead corpse to fall to the ground.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the echo of death hanging in the air. Then, anger mostly vanquished, adrenaline dissipating, Castiel began to sway.

The pain came back like a tidal wave force, bringing him to his knees. Achingly, he began to crawl his way over to Meg, who was barely moving. Her screams had ceased, but he needed to know she was all right. "Meg. _Meg_," he tried again, when she didn't respond. His fingers slid over her face, cupping her jaw, despairing at the heat he felt there. Her eyelids fluttered, a tormented sound spilling past her lips.

"Still kicking," she managed in the barest whisper. Her eyes were still glazed over black, and they stared up dazedly at the sky half-mast.

A sigh of gut-wrenching relief broke out of him, and Castiel stared at her in pained disbelief. "Why did you ever come?" There was benediction and aching sorrow wrapped around every syllable, and if he didn't feel as though his body was about to split in two, Castiel thought he would have kissed her.

Meg closed her eyes tight as she rode out another wave of residual pain. When she opened them again, they were normal once more. "Hael heard the angel chatter and that Big Bad Bart was still in the area. Knowing you…" she trailed off, lashes fluttering again. "Jesus, you look like shit. You're supposed to keep that red stuff on the inside, wonder boy."

Castiel heard an ominous ringing in his ears at that moment, one that set him on high alert even given the state he was in. "Did you bring a vehicle?" he asked urgently.

"Parked a mile off. Didn't want him to hear."

"Can you move?"

Meg made a weak sound of protest at the slightest movement, her insides still feeling as though they were on fire. Her meatsuit was crippled from the damage she'd taken. She would heal, but at the moment she was all but paralyzed. "_Damn it_," she hissed, wanting to curl in on herself, though she couldn't even do that.

"We need to go, now."

Painstakingly, Castiel pushed himself up onto his knees, gathering Meg's body into his arms while ignoring her protests. Arms and legs shaking, he got to his feet, biting back a yell at the exertion and fresh agony it brought. He groaned behind his teeth, taking a moment to find his footing. Something was definitely broken.

"Is he dead?" grated Meg as they passed by what remained of Bartholomew.

"Very."

She whimpered pitiably into his chest as she was jostled, trying to disguise it. Castiel grimaced with regret at having to manhandle her while she was still so battered. He moved slow, his movements stilted and each step more agonizing than the last. His breaths came in sharp, painful stabs and the ringing in his ears kept up.

"Stop," Meg breathed out, ready to tear his head off for aggravating his injuries further.

"His followers will have sensed his perishing. They're coming, I can hear them." Castiel's words were disjointed, and his lungs felt like they were going to tear apart with the effort it took to speak and keep going. His heart pounded behind his broken ribs, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his starved muscles. His head throbbed relentlessly, the steps he took passing like broken glass.

Ezekiel had killed a good majority, yes, but there were still others—too many others, although _one_ right now was even more than he could handle.

Castiel made a noise of frustration as Meg slipped. Determined, he hefted her back up, grunting as arrows of pain tore into him from every angle. They'd made it a fifth of the way already, he could get her the remaining distance. Only four thousand more feet to go. He could do it. He had to, or she would die. They both would die.

Twenty-some minutes later, his breaths were coming short and stuttered, labored gasps now adding to the mix as well. Castiel's previous experiences with injury had been nothing like this. Those had been sharp bursts of pain that then disappeared, wiped completely away by the power of Heaven. Nothing at all like this dull ache that grew steadily worse, building up to a crescendo in his head and chest, or like these shudders that slid up and down his frame like waves of rolling heat as his body fought to shred itself in two. Pain was so different as a human, he kept forgetting.

"Take a breather, Atlas," Meg told him, her voice faint, completely hoarse.

"No," Castiel gritted out. "They're too close."

His voice sounded far away, sending chills up her spine. "Stop fucking walking, you'll make yourself worse."

Castiel didn't reply, legs working automatically. But something was wrong. The ringing in his ears was different now. There was a rushing as well, clouding his head and making his thoughts tangle in a disorienting fog. He stumbled once, balance deserting him. Wrong, something was wrong. His vision swam, darkening at the edges. Just another two thousand feet. Just a little more.

"…Cas…"

His legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees.

The darkness closed in, Meg's voice getting farther and farther away. He'd just started trying to get his feet back under himself again when all strength dissolved from his body and the darkness finally won.

* * *

_feet don't fail me now  
take me to the finish line  
oh my heart it breaks every step that I take  
but I'm hoping at the gates  
they'll tell me that you're mine_

* * *

Awareness slowly filtered back.

Castiel registered pain.

He was weak, too weak. To even open his eyes was too much of a chore and so he lay where he was, unmoving and unresponsive. The ground beneath him was not still at all, though. Wasn't behaving as ground ought to behave. There was a repetitive sort of grumble all around him, his body swayed rhythmically back and forth, sliding a bit against cool leather. There was no sharp stabbing of sunlight against his eyelids, just blessed darkness.

"My boy alive?"

Meg's voice. Frayed at the edges and sounding abused.

"Still kicking," came the disembodied assurance of Sam.

From the front seat, Dean said nothing, but the leather of the wheel creaked under his grip. They'd driven up on the two unconscious forms right as dusk hit. Sam had been afraid to move Castiel because he looked broken in parts that could do him some real damage if displaced the wrong way. Dean just remembered thinking that it took a hell of a lot to make a demon pass out from pain. As Sam had worked on getting Cas safely into the truck without further injury, Dean looked back on the small and unmoving form of Meg, eventually going back for her. He'd hauled her into the backseat, meeting Sam's eyes briefly and knowing by the look in them that he would have made Dean go back either way for her.

She was awake now, already almost halfway healed.

"He's probably dehydrated, too," Sam went on, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder at the two slumped forms in the backseat.

Castiel was coming to. "Where are we?" he muttered groggily.

"Disneyland," Meg offered in reply.

"No, we're not."

"Disneyworld?"

"Meg," the fallen angel groaned with great sufferance. There was something cool and wet on his forehead which, through some headache-inducing thought, he deduced was a washcloth. His head was still swimming and his ribs protested in pain with each bump that passed under the tires and he curled his arms over his torso protectively, too weak to even groan.

"Here," Meg's voice, beside him. Her fingers were threaded at the back of his head, tilting him up a bit, and something cold and wet brushed against his lips.

_Water_.

Castiel drank eagerly, relieved at the refreshing sensation that splashed down his raw throat. When he was done, he peered forward into the dark cab questioningly. "Ezekiel?"

"Safe at the camp, resting," said Dean.

Castiel's head fell back against the seat, relieved. "Good."

"I'm going to kill you," Meg said serenely beside him. Castiel offered a worn out huff in reply, not bothering to put any words together for a response. He felt more cognizant than when he'd first come to, but was still too hurt and exhausted to bother with conversation.

It took him a moment longer to realize that Meg had drawn his head into her lap, her fingers combing soothing lines through his hair. "Meg?" he managed to softly say, the unspoken question hovering in the air between them.

"Already feel better than you look right now," she replied, and though it was dark, he could hear the smile in her voice.

Her other hand was resting over his shoulder and he clumsily grasped it with one of his own, saying nothing more. The remainder of the ride back to camp was spent in silence, neither passenger speaking.

* * *

_I don't want the world to see me  
cause I don't think that they'd understand  
when everything's meant to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am_

* * *

Castiel grimaced, teeth gritted together as she pulled a little too tightly on the wrap. Meg was binding his ribs, the two of them alone in their cabin. Hael and Muriel had done what they could to heal him, but that particular ability was weak in them both after the Fall. And anyways, Castiel had instructed them to focus their efforts on Ezekiel so that he could be well again.

Back to the matter at hand, Castiel had been shot, beaten, stabbed, and any number of other painful things as both an angel and a human, but at the moment, Meg thought he was behaving like a little girl and told him so. Castiel took a defiant drink out of the bottle of alcohol beside the chair, leveling her with a look.

"I think you enjoy tormenting me," he muttered.

Meg made a small sound in the back of her throat, lips quirking as she raised her thumb and forefinger to indicate just a smidge. "A remnant, I suppose, from the good ol' days of being mortal enemies."

"I hope you fall in a well."

"Oh, but you'll just grip me tight, Lassie."

He narrowed his eyes disparagingly at her. "Do you never stop?"

She was still angry with him for what he'd done today, and it showed in the way she was abusing him with the wrap. "Only when it counts." Meg's grin was positively devious then, her cheeks rounding with the strength of it. "You wanna go another round and finish what we started earlier?" She nudged his ribs affectionately, earning a pained grunt, and pressed into him. "Promise I'll drive."

"Incorrigible," mumbled Castiel, but he smiled.

"You know, torment implies pain of a mental nature. Tormenting you is one of my favorite things. But…" Meg hesitated, frowning down at his bandaged body. "I don't like seeing you like this. In real pain. Makes me angry."

Castiel stared up at her as she hovered attentively, catching her eye. "That's sweet, isn't it," he murmured, half-teasing, half-not.

Meg snorted softly, curling her fingers into his hair at the back of his neck and planting a noisy kiss onto his forehead. She loved it when he got that sassy bite to his words. Whether it was at her expense or not. She was even grateful for it. He knew what it cost her every time she gave up a piece of herself like that. Making light of it always lessened the blow.

"I'm sorry my brother hurt you."

Meg's gaze flitted back to his at the quiet apology. After awhile, she lifted a shoulder indifferently. "Don't sweat it. You kicked his ass and I got to watch. Chalk it up to a day well spent."

"If you say so," he said.

Meg had taken up a cloth after soaking it a bit in the alcohol, dabbing it against the bruises and cuts on his face. "That hurt?"

"A little."

"You could probably just have one of your siblings try and heal you again tomorrow. Make it a joint effort. Maybe they aren't strong enough to magic Bullwinkle a new eye, but they could probably patch up some ribs."

"Ezekiel needs it more than I do. Besides, I prefer it when you touch me."

Meg's gaze slid to his, her smile sly. "Mmm. Mama like."

"You're certainly not my mother. Even if I had one, I don't think…" Castiel trailed off at her sigh, his brow furrowing. "Oh. That was a flirtation."

"You're hopeless."

"I'm learning," he said, a little defensively.

Meg pointed at the bottle of alcohol. "Finish that. Nurse's orders," she drawled lazily, a throwback from earlier.

Castiel obeyed, tipping his head back and downing the remainder. His throat burned hot under its effects, the whiskey doing hellish things to his esophagus. She was going to destroy his liver one day, and cackle beautifully while doing it.

_You want to know the definition of irony, Castiel? Sacrificing everything for the very thing designed to destroy you._

Castiel frowned.

_Just how many sins did she get you to commit, Castiel? _

_But the best part of the story has yet to come. An angel falls in love with a demon._

_Lucifer's most loyal… until the day she met Castiel. Stupid little angel who led her astray._

_She would have become a Knight, if not for you._

_You know… when you said you remembered everything, I thought…_

The constant feeling that something was off or wrong or missing crept back on him. It left him with a strange void, nagging at the back of his thoughts. Castiel knew that something very important was going on, it had to be, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the current ache in his body.

"Meg," he began, somewhat uncertainly. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. "If you knew something that I didn't… you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

Her eyes flew to his, clear surprise reflecting back at him.

"Depends," Meg began heavily, looking like she felt cornered. The façade fell. "If you mean the answer to a jeopardy question, fuck no. Call me competitive, but you're on your own. I'm a sore ass loser, angeldust."

Castiel regarded her waveringly. He looked like maybe he should be amused, and maybe a little like he was. Meg saw his posture relax, tense shoulders slumping some.

"Why do you ask?"

He shook his head, dismissing his concerns. "No real reason at all. Just… thinking out loud."

"How are you feeling now? Good and ready to take on a monster of about Aubrey's size, should the threat arise?"

The edges of Castiel's mouth softened in the way they hardly ever did but which always made her secretly glad. "I'm fine," he confirmed.

Meg narrowed her eyes, mouth pinching into a little line. "Uh huh. Pants off."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at her. "I don't know if I'm that fine."

Meg snorted. "Just do it, idiot. And come with me."

A few short minutes later, Meg had a bathful of steaming water ready for him. She rooted around in the cabinet nearby to see if they had any epsom salts on hand.

"What is this?" Castiel wondered.

"It's a _bath_, Clarence," she said snippily. "I know you're not that dense. _Yes_, here we go." She'd drawn out a small bag of something that looked like salt from the small cabinet next to the tub.

"No, I know that. I just don't understand why you've run one."

Meg stared at him. "You've never taken a bath before?"

"No, I've always showered. Except for the mandatory sponge baths at the hospital, but I don't think those count, do they?"

"Definitely not. They were fun, though," Meg smiled, fond remembrance making her dark eyes glitter in the low light of the room. "Sexy."

Castiel snorted, regarding the water dubiously as Meg poured in a large amount of the bag's contents. "I don't remember them being sexy."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?"

Something in her tone was belligerent. Most of all, he thought, sad. He stared at the back of her head, not sure how to respond. Meg didn't give him the chance anyway.

"Get in," she said.

She was suddenly reaching for the surface of the water then and, on instinct, Castiel was snatching her hand back in alarm, concern flooding his features. _Don't touch it_, his eyes seemed to scream at her, as though he thought she'd temporarily lost her mind.

Her hackles settled when she realized the reason for his physical outburst. "It's not really salt, Cas. It's fine."

"Oh," he said, feeling foolish. He watched her reach into the water, sloshing it around to mix its contents. Compliantly, he stepped in, though he was hesitant to submerge himself. "Won't it ruin the binding?" he asked, indicating the wrap still around his ribs.

"Waterproof. Just get in the damn tub."

Castiel sighed, the whole thing feeling strangely intimate. He lowered himself down into the water, a rush of heat immediately enveloping him. Every muscle in his body seemed to exhale a long, tremulous note of relief at the sensation. Castiel made a soft, wondering noise, immensely pleased with the result.

Meg regarded him with a decent measure of amusement, her lips tugging apart at his clear enthusiasm. "Lean back."

He obeyed, certain that it couldn't get any better, and then it did. The water level swallowed his shoulders, cocooning him in warm respite. It felt like a thousand fingers were caressing the aches and pains away he'd collected over not only the day, but the past several weeks. He let out a long sigh, his eyes falling closed.

"What is the purpose of these… fake salts?"

"Epsom salt. It's really a mineral compound of magnesium and sulfate. It has about a thousand different uses, but it's especially good for relieving pain and muscle aches. It eases stress and gets rid of toxins, too. Reduces inflammation of injuries, helps with migraines. Things like that. I don't know how much of this stuff is left in the world, though, so… use it sparingly."

Castiel was looking at her strangely, like he wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Thank you," he said finally, as though he were greatly surprised, though not unpleasantly so. Like he was touched she would go to such lengths for him. "For doing this, for finding these."

Meg cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the transparent gratitude. "Yeah, well. I didn't listen when you told me to stay put, so I figured I owed you this time. You can thank me for it later."

"I will," he replied, his expression unexpectedly heated. Blue eyes drank her in, sliding over her features intensely.

On impulse, he reached out, some water spilling over the side of the tub and down her neck as he cupped her face. Castiel leaned over the edge and kissed her.

The press of his lips against hers was just another reminder to her of how real and alive he was and Meg found herself sighing softly into him as she returned the intimacy. Castiel decided that he could stay like this forever, trapped in the spell she'd cast over him. Without thinking, without doubting the reason, he bent his head to the hidden place just below her ear, whispering every thought. Wanting her to know that, because of her, he could forget the damage he'd wrought, the world as it was, and how he felt less and less like himself each day. Meg put him at ease, at peace.

Even while he felt like a shadow trapped between shafts of light, splintered as a mast in a storm, there was always a part of him that settled when she was near. Because here, in the arms of this fallen woman, Castiel knew he was home. That he had been right all along, and that she was the anchor he needed.

Meg murmured something glib and frivolous against him, nonsensical and for no other reason than to draw a reaction out of him. And when he laughed, she sighed, knowing he would be there in the morning; solid, unwavering, and constant, so unlike everything else in their world. So unlike before.

She still had no idea what would happen if she told him. If he knew.

The thought terrified and dismayed her. Perhaps there was some small amount of exhilaration to it all, but mostly, grievously, it reminded her that there was a part of Castiel she would never get back. A part of him that would always be missing.

Meg vowed that she would hold tight to what pieces she did have.

* * *

_cause you're a hard soul to save  
with an ocean in the way  
but I'll get around it  
I'll get around it_

* * *

Ezekiel's vessel stood taller even than Dean. He was strong, quietly commanding in appearance, but with an infinitely temperate air of serenity. His eyes were sage, benign. He listened when spoken to, and everything about his demeanor and how he conducted his vessel exuded a docile patience that was heartening.

Over the past week, the camp's commander had been keeping subtle tabs on the angel's recovery. When there were no missions, no things to kill, or whenever Sam was giving him the cold shoulder, Dean would be here, watching over the angel whose name he'd spoken a hundred times, yet never really knew. He had not lied to Castiel about his intentions. Dean wanted very much to have another _deus ex machina_ in their pocket again, one who could go into the field, an angel who was not only willing to fight but was proficient at it, one that could be trusted. But there was more to his motivations than the obvious convenience of it all.

_Ezekiel. He's a good soldier_, Castiel had told him. For so long, Dean had thought Gadreel to be this noble, steadfast warrior his friend described. They had fought together, shared concerns with one another. Then, when Gadreel turned coat… everything fell apart. And so there was a part of him, some small moral remnant, that needed to make things right with the real Ezekiel. Dean needed that person back. He needed to know he wasn't completely _wrong_. That if Gadreel had actually been who he said he was, maybe all this shit they were dealing with now wouldn't have gone so sideways. Maybe things would be different.

Dean knew it didn't make a lick of sense. He knew that. And yet the pervasive need to somehow do right by this angel was as prevalent as it was grudging, a realization made more disconcerting due to the fact that Dean had already flipped the switch on his emotions. He'd refused any and all undertakings that did not pertain to putting the last remaining Knight of Hell six feet under. But here he was.

Looking at Ezekiel now, though, Dean felt a sliver of intimidation. Not because of the imposing yet compassionate presence that provoked respect as easily as it awarded empathy, nor the tall, powerful cut of the vessel's shoulders. It was purely because Dean loathed to be in the presence of something so righteous.

Like Gadreel, it was a stark reminder of how severely he had failed. Dean could stand before Castiel without guilt, without qualms, because Castiel was a mess. The fallen angel was as fucked up as the rest of them, and therefore would never pass or harbor any judgment.

But Ezekiel was _a good soldier_. And a good soldier meant integrity, moral justice, dependability. It meant selflessness and loyalty to the people who followed you. It meant sacrifice. It meant _heart_.

Everything Dean was not these days.

"We should talk, if you're gonna be staying here. I'm gonna call you Zeke. Can I call you Zeke?" Not waiting for an answer. "I'm—"

"Yes, I know who you are, Dean Winchester."

Dean bristled, a wrong feeling coming over him, because this was never a good thing. He braced himself for the revulsion, the distasteful smug arrogance. Things that knew of Dean Winchester seldom had good things to say of him, and so Dean allowed his expectations to plummet. _What was one more dick angel, anyways_? A sarcastic retort was ready and waiting on his lips for whatever punk ass remark was on its way.

Instead, Ezekiel held out a cordial hand. "It is a great honor to finally meet you."

Dean stared, dumbstruck, first at the proffered hand and then back at the benevolent expression it was paired with. Stiffly, the hunter shook the angel's hand in greeting, the suspicion never quite falling away until Ezekiel spoke again, deeply somber.

"I am… so very sorry." Dark eyes assured him that the sincerity there was absolutely genuine. "It should have been myself. The one to heal your brother."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, still not quite sure what to think.

"I heard your call," Ezekiel insisted, "but could not reach you in time. I've been trying to find Sam ever since. I regret that it took so long."

Dean reflected quietly, the angel saying nothing more. A fresh, indeterminate resolve bolstered his conviction, something terrible like hope edging at the surface of his disposition. The question that had been burning inside him since he first heard the words _Ezekiel is alive_ finally poured off his tongue and past his defenses. "Do you think you can find Gadreel?"

Ezekiel granted him with a solemn, obliging nod. "I will try. You have my word, Dean. And you have my help."

* * *

_hey brother  
there's an endless road to rediscover  
do you still believe in one another?  
what if I'm far from home?  
oh, brother I will hear you call  
_

* * *

**TRANSLATIONS**

Enochian:

_"Etharzi!"_ / Peace, be calm.

_"Monasci?"_ / Your name?

_"Od ol?"_ / And you?

_"Blasn cnila."_ / I will protect my blood.

_"Iasnovih."_ / Blessed, my thanks.

_"Mavialqvasb."_ / Hellfire/Damnation.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I probably won't have a chapter up next week at all because I'll be attending the SPN Vegas convention. Fun for me, but that means no update for awhile. To whet your palette: next chapter is currently without title in the sense that I can't decide between titles yet. But it will feature Cain. Among a bajillion other things. Thank you guys for the reviews! Please keep them coming as they make my day and bring a buttload of encouragement my way. :D


	5. Marked

**Author's Note: **So very sorry this update took so long. My only excuse is... well, look at the word count lol. Once again, translations at the bottom if you don't see them during the chapter.

* * *

**MARKED**

_the rib of Adam, the eyes of Eve  
__the sons of Cain receive no reprieve  
waiting for a dead man's shoes  
have you heard the latest news?  
Lazarus is back from the dead  
looking as one would expect_

* * *

21 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"Down!" shouted Dean.

Sam ducked beneath the shotgun barrel, the spray tearing apart the Croat's face that was charging them. Dean tossed the shotgun off to his brother and they switched positions. They weaved in between bodies, shooting, punching, stabbing. Red bloomed around Dean in a wide arc as the he cut through several Croats blocking his way. He felt Sam's shoulder knock against his, the younger Winchester intercepting any ambush that sprouted from their left. Wielding the demon knife and shotgun alternatively, Sam tore a brutal path for them. When the occasional demon cropped up, the knife vanquished its life with a purge of glittering brimstone, tearing through bone and cartilage. Dean utilized a bygone companion; the serrated obsidian edge cleaved through one throat after another, the Purgatory relic making up for its primitiveness with hellish efficiency.

His brother was ruthless, Sam thought—a realization he often came to nowadays. Dean was a master, a killing machine. It disturbed him sometimes how those green eyes fell blank, utterly devoid of passion as Dean sliced through a couple of demons or Croats, or even as he delivered a decision that would surely get good men killed in the name of vengeance.

It wasn't until recently though that Sam realized how far off the reservation his brother had gone. This Dean didn't fuck around anymore, no more quips or jokes. It was war and it was hardening his brother at an alarming rate. Dean had always been somewhat short-tempered, but now that he was the hopeless leader of a fearful resistance, he was downright violent. There were pools of blood at his feet, crimson red staining his clothes and the angry edge of the weapon he held, and he looked to be at home in the slaughter.

They'd made it as far as Ohio, having fortunately dealt only with small delays like vamps or the werewolf pack in Indiana. Then, a mile or so into Canton, a mob of Croats and demon lieutenants had ambushed their vehicle. The place was a festering shithole even before the apocalypse, so it really came as no surprise.

_Honestly, I think the world's gonna end bloody_, Dean once said, and the notion echoed virulently in his thoughts again now. In a strange way, he was almost comforted by the conflict and carnage. It was what he did best, where he excelled. Dean was a maven of wreckage after all, and when he had a clear outlet for his rage, he was _lethal_ and an absolute terror to behold. The unrelenting violence seemed to welcome him like an old friend.

Not far back, Meg leapt over a crumbling gravestone, twisting in the air to evade a stray machete swipe. She blasted the owner with a face full of rock salt from the sawed-off in her right hand, stabbing blindly with her left to cut off the second demon going for Castiel. An arrow buried itself in the throat of the demon charging for Dean, buying the hunter some time to finish off the Croat he was grappling with. Whirling then, he took off the demon's head and Sam slammed the demon knife up into the body's chest, silencing it for good.

Castiel dodged a wild attack, catching the thing around the neck with the limb of his bow and hauling it back across his path. It staggered and he delivered a hard punch to its face, a boot to its chest that sent it sprawling over a wooden cross at their feet, and then put a holy water tipped arrow through its sternum that pinned it to the cross. The demon hissed and clawed at its chest to dislodge the arrow, and Castiel held it down with the heel of his boot over its throat while he turned the several remaining demons into pin cushions. The demon writhed against the cross, tenuous plumes of smoke curling from the wound on its chest.

Castiel snagged a Croat around the shoulders with his free arm, holding the snapping jaws at bay, then twisted to break its neck. Back in front of him, Sam was already finishing off his trapped quarry with a harsh blow from the demon knife. Castiel pivoted sharply, kicking an extra weapon over to Meg across the dirt. She scooped it up deftly and used the knife as well as her own she still held to scale the back of a nearby Croat like a tree before she buried both into its neck.

Castiel brought his angel blade glittering to light, using both it and the bow's blades to deal critical damage. The holy steel was a gleaming blur under the midday sun. In his left hand, Castiel held the grip of his bow, slicing the air in deadly arcs that soon had the bonded titanium blades dripping with blood. He felt Meg's back graze his own, the assurance of her presence always in the back of his mind as he fought creatures that could now easily kill him. Castiel brought the bow bearing down like an ax in a powerful swing, embedding one of the blades deeply into a Croat's shoulder which severed its subclavian artery. He abandoned the dying infected temporarily, pivoting to grapple with the demon that flung itself at him. Castiel blocked the series of quick attacks it loosed on him, then flipped the angelic blade he still held in his hand so that the weapon's point was aimed downwards. In a swift move, he tore it across the demon's throat, spewing brimstone. His free hand thrust forward to grip it by the back of the neck, flinging the body behind himself and facing the next head on.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg in her element and was once again struck by her dark power like a moth enamored by flame. She had several demons in the opposition writhing at her feet as she mentally tore them apart from the inside, her eyes black and bottomless against the sweltering glare of the sun. Dark waves of hair spilled over her shoulder like a familiar tangle of thorns, errant strands whipping across her face as she fought. Her blades were bloody and as hungry for more as she was, and the sight was as beautiful as it was menacing.

Castiel withdrew his blade from the chest of another demon with a burst of hellfire, then returned it to the holster at his thigh before ducking a manic swing that would have otherwise meant his demise. He rolled over a shoulder, retrieving his waiting bow from its planted position in the dead Croat as he rose back to his feet. With a careless backwards arc, he decapitated the threat to focus on another more pressing one.

At the enormous infected that was barreling towards him, Castiel notched two arrows at once and fired them into its chest. Acting fast as the Croat was barely slowed down, he swung the bow back over his shoulder and drew the machete there instead, slicing into the lumbering, rabid mass. With a roar it caught the grip of the weapon, nearly crushing his fingers as it was wrenched from his hand. Castiel twisted out of the way, scrambling for the pistol holstered under his arm. Before he could pull it free, the thing had him around the throat, meaty arms cinched tight across his shoulders from behind. He might not have been able to become infected, but he sure as hell didn't want that piece of shit sinking its teeth into him. Castiel struggled, muscles straining against the chokehold as it manhandled him across the burial grounds.

"Cas, fucking kill it!"

The angry impatience in Meg's voice barely disguised the panic there, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw her fighting to reach him. "_Meg, shut up_," he managed to growl out when he found the air. He wasn't exactly sitting with his thumb up his ass. Castiel gripped at the bands of steel holding him prisoner, kicking his feet up and shoving off a nearby crypt with his boots hard enough to send them both careening backwards. When they collided against another stone fortification, the Croat howled in agony as the twin blades on Castiel's bow bit deeply into its body, causing immediate hemorrhages.

It released him, staggering tumultuously like an oak about to plummet. In its death throes, it forced Castiel back hard into the side of the jeep, causing his teeth to rattle in his skull and stars to spot his vision. As it toppled over in a graceless heap, Castiel sank to one knee, riding out a wave of fiery pain and cradling his still healing ribs that were now protesting in earnest. He ground out a curse between clenched teeth, eyes wired shut and muscles going tense.

"You good?" he heard Meg's voice above him, the concern there barely masked.

"Fine," he said tightly, forcing his feet back under himself. Ignoring the pain, he forewent her proffered hand and recovered the machete from the dirt, squaring his shoulders and ready for round two.

_If he fucking dies because of you_, Meg had snarled at Dean, leaving the threat open-ended as they'd hit the road. Dean had barely given her a second look—either doubting her ability to back up the words or calling her bluff. Except Meg wasn't bluffing. Castiel was the cause she now served, and if something happened to him she'd set the whole fucking world on fire herself. The stupid dipshit was loyal to a fault and would follow Dean anywhere and it was bound to get him killed. Her too, for that matter, because Castiel wouldn't fall into the fire alone this time. Meg barely recognized this righteous fury that mounted within her, but it was prevalent all the same. So, she'd given Dean fair warning. His lack of heeding it was as maddening as he was, but came as no real surprise.

"Back to the jeep!" the hunter bellowed over the last remaining discharges. He hacked away with the blade from monster land until he got a chance to reload. Whatever approached him—whether it sported black eyes or bloodshot ones—found itself on receiving end of a very gruesome death. Dean _leveled_ all that stood in his way, decimating the enemy force and working his way through demon lieutenants as though they were mere foot soldiers. The Purgatory weapon obeyed his every command like a trusted friend, and he left a mutilated trail in his wake.

Sam shouldered past the few remaining obstacles, swallowing ground back for the jeep. Demons and Croats cropped up around him, getting either a salt round to the face or a demon knife to the throat. His body was beginning to protest at the exertion, but he pressed forward at impossible speeds. Dean had assumed guard at his side when Sam caught up, and there was cold determination writ beneath the blood and grime, beneath the scowl he wore like a badge into battle. "Sam!"

The only reply for a long time was the repetitive firing of Sam's weapon. "Not yet!" his brother shouted back. The demons were too spread; he was determined to wait until they were all on top of him and, even barring that, Meg was still too close. Sam popped the hinge pin open on his shotgun, ejecting the empty shells. Gunpowder stained his hands black, smoke curling from the double barrels.

But Dean was already slicing his way back over and, within seconds, he'd dug the demon bomb out of Sam's belt and hurled it down at the ground with callous resolve.

"Dean, no—!"

Castiel felt as though someone had just clamped a vice around his throat, a sick feeling somersaulting through his chest when he saw what was about to happen. Abandoning his own fight, he seized Meg by the arm and hauled her behind the jeep, slamming her into the rusted metal and throwing his body over hers as death swept around them in a roaring hiss.

A wide arc of arcane power mushroomed out in an explosion of sound, ripping through the mass of possessed bodies with devastating force. The demons were immediately reduced to little more than burnt outlines of brimstone and ash. As the dust settled and the noise faded, Sam's bloodied face twisted in frustration. Looking at his brother though, he swallowed the angry protest begging to spill past his lips because he knew it would be pointless.

Dean plunged his blade into the still spasming body of a half-dead Croat, wrenching it once and removing it with a sickening squelch. He wiped the blood off on the corpse before shouldering the weapon.

"What the hell was _that_?" Castiel demanded as he and Meg appeared from the safety of the jeep. He was clearly indicating the close call, and he looked fucking pissed. Once it was finally safe, he'd pulled back to make sure Meg was unharmed, only to see the fading burns as they began the slow healing process over her scalded flesh. She hadn't been quite quick enough to hide the instinctive fear from him which lay hidden in those dusky eyes and he felt a seething anger claw its way to surface.

"I felt my hair singe, you asshole," the demon put in spitefully. Her baleful glare was dripping with unchecked disdain, and she angrily brushed the cinders from her jacket. "A warning would have been nice!"

"If you wanna stick around to throw a bitch fit, be my guest. Otherwise, get in the jeep. We're moving." Dean's stance looked relaxed and at ease, but in contrast his words cracked like a whip. He stepped over the semi-circle of dead Croats then and through the heavy stench of fire and brimstone sizzling the air, storming past the three of them. "Let's go, Sam."

The command tightened the hunter's voice, all compassion frozen over like ice. This Dean, Sam swallowed as he watched resignedly from where he stood, had no humanity left. Or, if he did, it wasn't towards his own crew or the people possessed. Which was foreign and unsettling, because Sam remembered a time when Dean's passion to protect people was blinding. It was yet another small thing that reminded him that no one came back from the Pit or Purgatory unchanged. No one came back from _war_ unchanged.

Even still, Sam followed after him.

He always would.

* * *

_oh death  
won't you spare me over another year  
but what is this that I can't see  
with ice cold hands taking over me  
when God is gone and the devil takes hold  
who will have mercy on your soul_

* * *

THREE DAYS PRIOR, CAMP CHITAQUA

"The First Blade?" Castiel appeared skeptical and uneasy as he examined the maps and lore laid out between the small party. He held a drink in his hand and dispassion in his eyes. The low illumination of the cabin threw the occupants' expressions into harsh shadow, lending to the tense atmosphere of the situation. It diverged the table into two opposing sides, each vying between darkness and light. The meeting was exclusive to the foursome, as it had earlier been determined that the general consensus of the camp towards this mission would prove unfavorable as it was so dangerous.

Dean's determination was dark and absolute. "If anything can kill Abaddon, this is it."

Castiel merely grunted acknowledgement, the look of distaste on his face speaking volumes. His jaw clenched at the diverse memories of what he'd seen that very Blade do throughout the ages. The uncharted road set out before them was nothing compared to the Blade itself in terms of risk.

"That's great, Deano." From another corner, Meg's sarcasm spilled over into her words. Her expression was somewhat baleful, her tone faintly insolent. "Do we have anything that can _find_ the First Blade?"

"Got a lead already."

Sam spoke then, addressing the two out of the loop whereas Dean had preferred to hit the road as soon as possible, no questions asked. "Going off our dad's journal, a demon mentioned the First Blade to him. Journal also logged a code alongside the entry for one of our dad's storage lockers," he explained. "Hope is, there's something more in the storage locker."

"_Hope is_?" Meg snorted. "Not a lot to go on, Beanstalk."

Castiel sardonically regarded the map in passing with a dry chuckle. "Our fearless leader is quite adept at turning bread into wine. Should at least prove interesting. I assume this will be a private excursion?"

"Yes," Dean flatly replied. He eyed the drink in his friend's hand disapprovingly. Sure, he bore his own alcoholic demons, but right now wasn't the time to get shitfaced.

"So no need for chloroform and a rope then to acquire added help on this little goose chase. Just the three musketeers and milady riding again." Meg's tone remained clouded with doubt and archly derisive. "Where's the storage locker?" she asked, curiosity nonetheless outweighing aggravation. "Color me dubious, but I don't imagine it's anywhere remotely convenient."

His response was clipped and terse. "Essex."

"_New York_?" Meg's eyebrows shot for her hairline, and a cynical laugh gusted out of her in disbelief. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You're gonna take this hot little caravan of ours from Lebanon to Essex? On a _hunch_? Well, holy rotting shit." Meg gave another sharp bark of laughter at the erroneous logic, shaking her head. Kansas to New York was a hell of a hike to begin with, but in the world they were living in now? Hell, no wonder it would just be them—they were the only four still alive who were crazy enough to try. "Why not just _Thelma and Louise_ it off the nearest cliff?"

Castiel regarded the map with no small measure of disdain. "Oh, look. And this road trip will lead us right through a dozen hot zones."

Meg shared a brief look with him that spoke of mutual agreement. She knew nothing brought Castiel more joy than being a magnet for infected. It was the remnants of grace left inside him, they'd figured long ago. The chompers couldn't stand it. "Fifteen hundred miles of pure, apocalyptic fun. Better stock up on your rabies shots, handsome."

"Crawlin' with Croats, yeah," Dean uttered dispassionately, his eyes rolling. "Looters, demons, monsters, who knows what else. Hell of a damn good time." The challenge in his unwavering stare was clear. "Are you saying my plan is reckless?"

Castiel's reaction to that was largely apathetic, and he took another drink from his glass. "If you don't like _reckless_, I could use _insouciant_," he uttered mordantly.

"Or _fucking stupid_," Meg chimed.

Dean's patience was thinning. "You coming, or not?"

Castiel appeared resigned, discord warring briefly behind his eyes, and he sighed. "Of course." The answer was automatic. They would likely all be killed during this kamikaze venture, but he'd go anyways. Because, despite any burned bridges, Dean was still his best friend and he would still do anything for him. Castiel was in, win or lose. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes asking the question even before he spoke. "Meg?"

A drawn up eyebrow from him. An answering eye roll from her. Sam marveled, not for the first time, at the effortlessness of their unspoken language. The demon looked at the fallen angel silently for a moment as she reached her decision.

With a bitter laugh, Meg said, "What the hell?" She came to stand beside Castiel, leveling a narrow-eyed look at his face and nudging his shoulder with hers. "Someone's gotta watch your ass."

"We head out tomorrow?" Sam surmised, looking between them all. It felt like final words and the dark notion gave him pause as he considered how willing they all were to jump right into the lion's den.

Dean, however, felt satisfaction. He felt vindicated. He'd known in dealing with Castiel and Meg that he only needed one to agree and the other would follow, no matter the danger. Was it manipulative? Yes. Did he care? Perhaps, but there were things he cared more about. Things he _had_ to care more about. "Pack light, pack mean, and bring a set of balls. We've got one chance to pull this off, I don't want any one of you fucking it up." He aimed a cold, meaningful look at Castiel. "Sober up."

The fallen angel offered the room a devil-may-care smile, shrugging and downing the remainder of his drink in salute. "If Dean Winchester says it's time to go out in a blaze of glory, so be it." The glass was placed back on the table with some force, the gallows humor ringing in the air in parting as Castiel turned and left.

The silence in the room hung for a moment more, tension strung tight like a whipcord even as their plans were agreed upon.

"Run along," Dean muttered to the still present company, ducking his chin to regard the maps there. "We're on the road by morning."

All affability had fallen away from Meg's sharp features, and her stare was like a serrated blade ready to dig into his skin. "If he fucking dies because of you, Winchester, I swear…"

"We're all going to die, princess."

"Dean." Sam's voice was terse, no longer passive. Wordlessly, it said to cool it.

Meg resisted the powerful urge to rip the hunter's heart out through his nose. "You're not the only one who apprenticed under Alistair," she said tonelessly. He met her eyes at that one, unwaveringly but not unflinchingly. There was a fracture there somewhere deep and hidden at the reminder of what he'd become once. Trace amounts of guilt and even disgrace flickered behind that empty stare looking back at her. _Good_. He was paying attention. "Remember that, Deano."

He was just good enough at the trade to make it really interesting, should the time ever come when the demon's patience ran out, or when Dean's own patience took that final, critical hit. Meg exchanged a brief look with Sam before she disappeared out the front door after Castiel.

Dean watched her go, saying nothing. Beside him, Sam grimly held his tongue.

* * *

_no wealth no ruin no silver no gold  
nothing satisfies me but your soul  
I'll open the door to heaven or hell  
my name is death and the end is here_

* * *

PRESENT, NEW YORK

_CASTLE STORAGE,_ read the tarnished sign hanging above their heads.

Together, Sam and Dean broke the lock, sliding the corrugated metal door up and open so that the four of them could enter. One by one they filed in, the brothers immediately bee-lining for whatever sector of the room pertained to the code they'd found in their father's journal. Castiel followed them into a caged off area, but he glanced over his shoulder when he noticed Meg wasn't at his side. She stood, foot tapping peevishly, just at the edge of the devil's trap that blocked her access into the subsidiary room. Castiel offered her a tight, rueful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Pride a little nicked, Meg looked away with a derisory huff, taking in her surroundings with poorly concealed distaste. "Love what John did with the place. What is this décor, anyways? Rustic obsessive?"

"_Hey_." Dean's sharp, whipcrack snarl drew her eyes back to the chain-link separator. "You don't say his name, do you understand me? You don't even _think_ it."

Meg said nothing, meeting his eyes evenly in silent, vacillating regard. There was buried animosity rekindled, but also something approaching sincerity that made the challenging arc of her brow less severe, dark eyes shining under the shoddy fluorescent light. There was less hostility in Sam's eyes, perhaps even an apology there too, but he didn't speak a word to her. Dean continued to stare at her coldly, silently.

Meg inclined her chin a bit primly, squaring her shoulders as she looked away in a bid to preserve that pride with stilted indifference. It wasn't long before she felt the predictable brush of Castiel's jacket as he returned to her, having left the brothers to sorting through their father's old numbering system.

"Ignore him," was his quiet murmur.

His hand ghosted over the small of her back in a passing gesture of assurance, and Meg's lips pressed into a thin line. She wouldn't meet his eyes for some reason. Castiel was watching her carefully, or he might not have seen the barest evidence of attrition. "My daddy killed their daddy. Bit of a sore subject," she muttered, sotto. When he opened his mouth to object, she immediately cut him off. "Nothing you can say, nothing_ to_ say. Don't pretend I don't deserve it."

Castiel had no reply to that. He observed her reticence dismally, withholding a sigh of acknowledgement when it became clear by her tone that the subject was dropped.

"Here," Sam spoke up. All eyes fell to the pen. Castiel drifted back over to the entryway as the younger Winchester continued. "Dad says he interrogated the demon and exorcised it."

"The one Crowley said his lackey was after?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, pointing out the inscription to him. "Yeah, but not before it mentioned the First Blade."

"So Crowley was right."

Sam read from their father's notes, his eyebrows furrowed into a crease of concentration. "_Demon said the archangels used a weapon that could kill the Knights of Hell_."

Dean looked over his shoulder, holding off on his own findings to see what Sam had dug up. "He'd never heard of anything like that. Or a First Blade," he surmised.

Sam exchanged a pensive look with his brother, the two of them communicating silently. At Dean's nod, he nodded too. "Dad probably thought the demon was lying."

"Trying to save itself."

"Does it ever surprise you?" Meg wondered to Castiel, raising her eyebrows at him. "How often demons are actually telling the truth?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, tacitly indicating that she spare them all the commentary since Dean was clearly in a mood and Castiel grew weary of playing referee between them. Meg merely gave him a complacent smile, not bothered at all by his fretting. In fact, encouraged by it. Castiel sighed, ignoring the gleam of satisfaction in her eye for having ruffled his feathers. At least her cold isolation seemed to have passed.

But Dean had forgotten she was even in the room—that anyone was in the room in fact, apart from his brother. "Sammy…" A mystified, deeply reverent shock had fallen over him, and a sensation not unlike having ice water tossed down his back seized hold of him only to settle devoutly then in his gut.

"My God," Sam murmured from beside him, seeing it too.

In his hand, Dean had uncovered a new pad of notes, another leather binding full of them—full of their father's writings, full of answers to questions they hadn't even thought to ask. Unchartered heritage stared them both in the face. Dean looked over it carefully in quiet wonder, not sure what to make of what they'd just found. Their father had a whole other journal he'd kept secret, devoted just to finding the Blade? "He could never let it go. Look." Dean held the book up for Sam's inspection.

The younger Winchester was amazed. "Dad searched for it?"

Castiel disappeared back into the pen, awash in curiosity at the find. He began sorting through the documents with the brothers, the three of them working together now to find what they were looking for.

"Holy _shit_… he had contacts looking all over the _world_." Dean poured over the words, awestruck with a renewed sense of admiration at the man. _This whole time…? _

Sam's attention snagged on something he read. His finger shot forward to point it out, eyes wide and darting to his brother. "Dean, he found a location spell."

But Dean looked devastated now, some of that impassioned resilience falling away in confusion. He shook his head, brow arching in dismay at the thought of such a huge secret being kept from them. Their father had entrusted them with _everything_, so why hide away something so valuable? Dean couldn't understand it. "Why did he never tell us this?"

Sam's features were drawn. He wore a doleful frown, not quite understanding himself. The atmosphere became heavy under the emotional riddle, and one large shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug. "Maybe he never got the chance to?"

Severing the moment, although not unkindly, Castiel held up another document for them to see. "Your father couldn't find all the ingredients for the spell."

Two pairs of eyes fell on the paper, combing over it carefully and then immediately falling morose at the unattainable grocery list they were faced with.

"Let me see." The three men glanced to their left to see Meg peering through the grating at the paper. She'd abandoned her detached post and her stony silence, ready to be useful. Castiel held up the list for her inspection and her dark eyes scanned the contents. "I can get those."

Dean looked at her sharply, his green stare penetrating. "So do it."

The tone commanded action and obedience. Immediately, the others recognized that the brief lapse of sentimentality was gone and the militant resolve was back. Meg smirked in the face of it, annoyed and rueful all at once. "There's a catch, Mighty Mouse. They'll sense my flitting around and be able to track it."

Sam's brow drew together. "They?"

"Other _demons_? Abaddon's, Crowley's, and every bellycrawler in between."

"Shit," Sam said, echoed shortly after by Dean.

Castiel regarded Meg with burgeoning unease, already knowing where this was headed. Sam was clearly onboard, if a little anxious at the risk, and he looked to his brother for the final decision. Meanwhile, Meg was whistling the _Jeopardy_ theme.

Dean deliberated silently for several long moments, weighing the gamble. Eventually, he issued her a stiff nod. "Do it."

"Highness," the demon acknowledged, bowing scantly. Her smirk blossomed into a full grin, and Meg's eyes slicked to black.

"Meg…" Castiel began, and she could hear the apprehension in his gravelly voice.

"Don't get your feathers in a bunch, handsome. I'll be quick as a jackrabbit." She blew him a kiss, snapped her fingers, and was gone.

The fallen angel grew tense, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He recognized the move for what it was—Meg's way of fixing what she could. Making up for the past, despite that there could be no absolving such a thing. His stoic demeanor revealed outwardly nothing, but those waiting eyes and tightening fists betrayed him as easily as if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.

"She'll be fine, Cas," Sam said from beside him, the futile effort meant to reassure him. "This is Meg, remember?"

"I'm aware of what she's capable," Castiel replied tightly, concern etched heavily on his face. "That doesn't mean…"

The words trailed off almost uncertainly, lost in the brief quiet Meg had left in her wake. Castiel frowned at the empty spot where she'd been, feeling restless. He counted the minutes as they crawled agonizingly by. Between the Crowley loyalists and Abaddon's headhunters, Meg had very few friends and very many enemies. The notion had him itching to fly off and lay waste to something, but here he was—grounded and useless.

Sam laid a hand over his shoulder briefly, wordlessly conveying that he understood.

"How about you use your little love connection powers and tell your girlfriend to hurry up," Dean chimed unhelpfully.

As if on cue, Meg stood before them again with her arms full, somewhat frazzled. Castiel let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and both he and the Winchesters filed back out of the pen to see what she'd found. Meg was already moving towards the back of the main room, dumping the ingredients onto the tool bench there. "Let's make some cocktails, boys. And move your asses because time is not on our side right now."

"Did anyone follow you?" Castiel asked, not even bothering to keep the demand from his voice.

"Picked up a tail somewhere near Jerusalem, but I shook it. Not sure for how long. _Chop, chop_—let's get baking before all that messy brown stuff impacts the oscillating blades, shall we?"

When the ingredients were properly mixed, Sam excavated the room until he'd found a map behind one of the metal shelves and he spread it over the tabletop in front of them. "Matches?"

Dean already had the pack out, striking one against the rough edge and, as Meg poured the mixture out over the map, Dean lit the surface and they all watched it go up in flame. The fire swelled in a short burst, drawing inwards then by the primordial pull of magic that kept the flame controlled and deliberate. Within moments, it was extinguished, the burnt remnants leaving behind only a small, singed section that was still legible.

"Eldridge…" Sam murmured, a disillusioned frown splitting his face. "Missouri."

Dean stared, expression raw and quiet fury mounting as the map lay there taunting them all. When he spoke, his voice was low and menacing against the outcome. "You mean we travelled fifteen hundred miles all the way to New York when the Blade was sitting right next door?"

There was a tense beat of silence, and then Meg burst out laughing into a high-pitched cackle.

"_What_?" he snarled.

"I'm sorry," she said through the bitterness, not sorry at all. "That's fucking hilarious."

Dean looked as though he'd sooner kill her than look at her. Sam sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "We probably drove right past it."

"That is…" Castiel looked jaded and annoyed, "unfortunate."

"_Shit_," Dean bit out, beginning to angrily pace.

"Now what," Sam muttered.

"We drive back to fucking Missouri, Sam."

"We'll need to make a pit stop," Meg said, indifferent to the two identical glares leveled her way, though she managed to look both condescending and insulted at the same time. "Hey. Unless you want demons following us, we need to take precautions. They're on my ass now."

Dean was too infuriated for inconveniences. "Easy. We leave you. Or kill you. Win-win."

"Cute," Meg sneered, ignoring the jibe and automatically putting a hand over Castiel's arm to calm the sudden storm in his eyes.

"Meg will return to the camp with us," he said, regardless. His tone was that of a gavel slamming down, leaving no room for dispute.

"Easy, tiger. He knows he's not getting rid of me."

Dean shouldered past them both, his sudden attitude as potent as roadkill, and everyone gave him a wide berth. "Get your asses back on the road."

Castiel and Meg followed after him mutely, retorts hanging useless on their tongues. Sam shied back, taking a moment to soak in the memory of this place, thinking that he may never see it again. It was only a storage locker, sure, but it held a piece of their father and there just wasn't enough of that these days.

Sam missed the man.

It had taken him a long time to admit it, a long time to realize it, but be truly did miss his father. He had never known his mother, not really, and what memories he did have of John weren't always pleasant. But that he had memories at all was a blessing, he found. His father had made a lot of mistakes, but so had Sam. A decade later and he finally saw how similar they really were.

_Just trying to keep the family together. _

His brother needed help, and Sam didn't know how to help him. So… yeah. He wished desperately that their father were here to tell him what to do. To say anything, really. Not just about Dean, but _everything_. The world didn't belong to them anymore but they still had to live in it. Still had to fight for it. Dean didn't quite seem to agree and he was fighting for something else. He really had switched places with Sam. At least, the Sam of _before_. Chasing revenge and damning the consequences, damning whoever was lost in the process.

He'd almost killed Meg today.

Sam didn't want to think about what Castiel would have done if that had happened. He was no idiot, despite any outward denial—Castiel had sold his fucking soul, and he'd sold it for Meg. Deep down, Dean probably knew it, too. There was no other explanation. Sam _saw_ Crowley kill her. He _watched_ Meg die. He felt like shit for it then and he still did to this day because it was primarily his fault. Castiel had told him one thing that night—_stay here and protect Meg_.

Sam wore a dark look under heavily furrowed brows, a terrible sense of failure afflicting him.

_I'm sorry I let you down, Cas. I'm sorry you had to do what you did. _

If Meg died again… or when Cas himself eventually died? Sam felt a sick feeling churn through his gut at the thought. They were going to lose Cas. Nine more years and he was gone. He'd be dragged to Hell and then what would Meg do? What would any of them do? Dean was hanging by a thread as it was—he _said_ he no longer gave a shit about collateral damage, but if he lost his best friend? One of the _only_ few friends he had left? Sam wasn't even sure what he would do himself. When that clock chimed twelve on Castiel's last hour… Sam felt a shudder rush through him, eye wiring shut in a cringe to erase the thought. He couldn't lose another person like that. Another brother.

He wanted to stop losing people, period.

Maybe if Dean saw this through to the end… maybe it really would save them all.

If it didn't kill them first.

* * *

_touch my mouth and hold my tongue  
I'll never be your chosen one  
the pull on my flesh was just too strong  
stifled the choice and the air in my lungs  
better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"_Od oiad teloc ip sa od oiad paaox ip noasmi oiad teloc_. And the departed shall remain, and the remains shall be the departed," Ezekiel explained to his companion. "When an angel leaves a vessel, they leave behind a piece of themselves."

They stood in the younger Winchester's cabin, the faint sounds of the camp's everyday chaos droning from outside. Ezekiel had said a place of peaceful quiet would be beneficial for the start of these exercises, and this was really the only piece of Camp Chitaqua that Sam had to himself. _For_ himself, really.

"Like an angelic fingerprint?" he wondered, offering the angel a beer from the icebox he kept in the corner.

"Yes," Ezekiel said, amused by the brevity and of the offer that superseded it. He shook his head and Sam returned the second bottle, twisting the cap off his own. "However you would like to refer to it, this _piece_ of Gadreel contains grace."

Sam's brow knit in confusion and surprise. "You're saying there's angelic _grace_ inside of me?"

"Yes." Ezekiel said again, nodding. "I'm going to teach you how to _channel_ that grace, and to use that connection to track Gadreel."

"Wait…" Sam frowned and shook his head. An immediate sense of worry befell him at the unexpected shift of responsibility, and it was plainly evident on his face in a way that brought the angel deep sadness. "You're not going to help? I thought you were going to be the one to—"

"Sam." Ezekiel offered him a temperate smile. "I'll do what I can. I said that I would, and I meant it. But you are strong in ways an angel can only dream of being. _You_ hold the connection. Gadreel's grace is _here_." He held a finger over Sam's heart, regarding the human as though witnessing something remarkable there. "If anyone has the power to find him, it's you."

"Doesn't feel like I have anything in there," Sam muttered, rubbing a hand absently over his chest. The young hunter looked dispirited in every way, drinking morosely from his bottle and studying his feet with an intensely pensive frown.

"You have far more than grace alone inside you, Sam Winchester." Ezekiel spoke heavily, the words resonating in a manner that was undeniably stirring. "As to the connection you share with Gadreel, it will take time, but I promise that you will learn to harness and exploit that connection as easily as any spell."

"How long are we talking?" Sam asked, a tired smile edging at the corners of his mouth.

Ezekiel quietly chuckled. "That depends on you." At Sam's hesitance, he went on. "If I did not think you could do this, I would not have brought it to your attention."

"I don't know how much you know or what you've seen, Zeke, but I'm not exactly what you'd call a safe bet."

Much of Ezekiel's quiet exuberance fell away at the banked pain and self-doubt packed into those few words. So much suffering and tribulation had befallen this human, so much evil and so much of it undeserved. It was both disheartening and truly maddening to see Sam regard himself with such lack of faith when none of that fault could ever be allowed to rest on his shoulders.

Ezekiel regarded him more seriously, benevolence falling away to conviction. "Throughout my time on this earth I've come to realize that the more someone has to tell you that they are something, the less truth there usually is to it. In that very same respect, the less a man thinks of himself, the more he seems to truly be worth." Admiration was rooted deeply in the angel's expression as he considered his human companion, and his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Sam said nothing, stunned by surprise into silence. "I have seen the evils of this world and of Heaven, just as keenly as I've beheld its wonders. I was there when our brightest star fell and I have faced down Satan's armies from the moment time itself first drew breath. I have traversed eternity, worlds of fire, of majesty, and I can tell you the name of every star my Father hung in the sky above us. I've seen terrible, beautiful things you can only _dream_ of imagining."

The air around them buzzed with a sudden current of energy, the lights flickering overhead as great skeletal shadows unfurled against the walls of the cabin. Dark eyes gained ethereal luminance, brilliant with righteous favor. Ezekiel had risen to his full height, nearly eye to eye with Sam but all the more imposing.

His voice was a sonorous command, and Sam instinctively shrank back in the face of it. "Look at me. You know what I am, and yet you have no idea. I am an angel of Heaven, a celestial being borne into existence by the Most High. I am a _warrior_, virtually limitless. Yet here I stand, impressed by _you_, Sam Winchester. _You_ are who I strive to emulate. Your compassion, your desire to do good, it is what inspires _all_ of us. And let me tell you… it _means something_, boy."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Ezekiel barreled right over him with perhaps even more severity than before.

"You are _mighty_. In all the ways an angel is and is not. You have our strengths yet _none_ of our weaknesses. Our lack of emotion limits us, but it lives in you as brightly as that grace you carry, and it has driven you since you first taught yourself to stand. I've _seen_ the miracles you've accomplished throughout the years, Sam. You withstood Lucifer. Your will was stronger than his, than the Morning Star's himself. To anyone, that would astound, but I assure you that—_to angels?_—that moment was one of humanity's _greatest_ feats. He was the most powerful of any of us and yet that power paled in comparison to yours, my friend." The angel's rant gradually tempered, the lights returning to their proper luster and the shadows at Ezekiel's back falling away. Deeply rooted pride showed over every inch of his countenance, earnesty softening the words he said so strongly. "Knowing this as you now do, is it safe for me to presume that you will not doubt yourself again?"

Sam could do little else but stare, dumbstruck. After a long moment, he swallowed hard, nodding slightly. "I… alright. Yeah. I understand."

"Good." Ezekiel's dark features softened into a passing smile. "Now," he began. "We're going to explore a form of transcendental meditation, which will help you focus on those remnants of grace and to seek out its source. Are you familiar at all with meditation?"

"Somewhat," Sam replied, still a little uncertain. Jess had tried getting him into yoga once, but that was about the extent of what he knew on a personal level. Everything else was just witnessed secondhand or read about.

"The transcendental form is a rather simplified practice that emerges from Vedanta, where you assume a still position and use a mantra, a sacred word that is repeated. The subject focuses on rising above all that is impermanent. In this practice, the state of being changes, much like… I believe humans refer to it as an out-of-body experience. The body's state of being, in _this_ instance, is to merge with and find the source of the grace it houses. Do you follow?"

Sam nodded. "I think so. What's the sacred word?"

"_Eaohnvozi_. Vessel."

Sam allowed the wealth of knowledge to settle in, his mind working through everything the angel said with careful deliberation. "You really think I can do this?"

"You Winchesters have a habit of surprising us," Ezekiel remarked, rather fondly. Sam, he knew, felt inadequate because of his mistakes, his past, because of this new handicap. All of those things were swirling in a dark nebulous inside the human's thoughts and the angel could see it plain as day. "I think the only obstacle that can keep you from any goal is yourself."

Sam mulled this over for a long time before finally letting out a long breath. "Guess I better whip myself into shape then."

Ezekiel's regard of him was intensely heartening. A powerful hand rested over the hunter's shoulder in support, and the angel dipped his chin in a reaffirming nod. "You will do this, Sam. I have faith in you."

* * *

_there's a place where you can light the fire and watch it burn  
lay it down and lose it all  
it's taken me so far beyond the point of no return  
someday soon will fade away  
what's it going to take to survive?_

* * *

15 MONTHS BEFORE THE FALL

Her life was a series of befores and afters—the Risa of now certainly not the same woman she was before her fiancé's eyes turned black and he tried to choke the life out of her. That Risa had no idea how to handle a gun, how to chant an exorcism, how to draw a devil's trap. Still… she'd take that life over what she had now. The world would never be what it was, not since Croatoan hit the planet, and frankly she wasn't sure there _was_ an after for her. For any of them.

She'd joined the Winchesters' crew because they seemed to be the only ones doing more than just surviving. She'd known his name before the virus, of course—hell, every hunter did. Even newbies like her had heard about it when he'd clawed his way out of his own grave, when he and his brother set Lucifer free, and then the rumor that he was the only one who could beat the devil. Well… that seemed to have worked out. She hoped it was as easy to beat a Knight of Hell. Hoped it was really as simple as playing with matches, or as effortless as the Winchesters seemed to make everything look.

Risa didn't think Dean trusted her at first, and really, she didn't blame him. It wasn't because she was a woman. It was her inexperience compared to the others. But she knew her shit more than any civilian, than the survivors they found, the runaways and refugees they offered sanctuary. She was good in a fight, and was a hell of a shot with a sniper rifle. It hadn't taken her long to prove herself.

She found him far into the back of the camp, where the thistle and weeds grew thick. He was alone, sitting on the hood of a black '67 Impala that had foliage growing through it.

Green eyes and freckles made an appealing package. Risa was interested despite herself. Despite that dark cloud that was always hanging over his head, the brooding scowl, the decades of baggage that dragged along at his feet like shackles. It wasn't even a bad boy thing. It was something else entirely, something she couldn't put a name to. She knew he was attracted to her, had caught him looking, but so far he hadn't made any sort of move. She wondered what he'd been like before all this. Before he went to Hell and got pulled out, before the Fall, before Croatoan hit.

Dean knew he had company but said nothing. Risa silently moved to stand beside him where he sat on the old hood.

"Can't hardly see the stars anymore," he remarked after awhile.

His voice was gruff like she was used to. Risa lifted a shoulder. "I used to live in New York. Never really saw the stars much anyways."

"Used to park sometimes in a field and look at them."

"By yourself?"

He shook his head, looking like he was lost in some memory. "Not always."

They killed twelve Croats that day and didn't lose any of their own people, and that was what passed for a good day now. Risa felt the energy buzzing under her skin, humming in her veins and pulsing at her back, an unseen force pressing her forward. Almost sensing her intent, Dean angled his neck to look at her.

"I'm a fucking mess, Risa."

His voice was softer, vulnerable unlike anything she was used to. It betrayed the emotional fatigue that hung over him like a permanent dark cloud. His own words vacillated between them in the deafening silence of twilight, echoing off his troubled mind and lending origin to the somewhat haunted expression he wore. Reluctance crept over him, his eyes flooded with uncertainty and something so close to shame that it bolstered her already fervent resolve.

"Yeah. Me too, Winchester." Risa took his face in her hands, scruff scratching at her palms, and kissed him.

He fell into her as though he were starving. Need and hope shuddered through him and he recognized how long it had been since he felt like that. Since he felt anything at all.

Risa let him grab and pull at her until she was lying beneath him on the hood, his hands and mouth softer than she would have imagined them being. He was pure, nihilistic desperation. The metal wasn't cool at her back—everything was so hot nowadays and it was always hard to breathe that arid, stale air, but she breathed him in like life and exhaled life back into him. It took hours before her lungs began to remember what they were good for.

That night, they both saw stars.

She wasn't really surprised when he showed up at her cabin two nights later, kicking the door closed behind himself and pillaging more kisses and promises from her mouth. They almost tripped over her boots lying in the way and he laughed against her mouth because of it, eyes bright in a way she didn't think she'd ever seen before. Risa touched his face with fond tenderness, surprised at the warmth filling her chest.

Their stolen nights became dangerous. They became more than adrenaline and survivor's guilt and the need to forget. Dean started giving her full smiles each time, showing her how far they'd fallen, and Risa tried not to reveal how stunned she was by how different it made him look. Younger and more hopeful, like the world hadn't gone to shit and they weren't all just marking time until they followed it down.

It took her another month or so to realize how much more she was smiling, too—when Dean was showing up a couple nights a week and they were both trying not to think about what it meant.

Nothing changed otherwise. Dean didn't open up or tell her anything more than he told the others. He didn't seek out her advice or act like she was special. He ran things on a need-to-know basis like everything else, and clearly he didn't think she needed to know. She was okay with that.

Then came the supply raid where they lost half the patrol. Dean lead out a second to bring in some demons for intel. He'd locked them in the camp's makeshift prison, and Risa made herself scarce when she heard the screaming. She remembered the looks on Sam and Castiel's faces, and likely would never forget them. The buried conflict, the sinister reminders resurfacing at whatever the hell was going on behind those doors. They knew, and she didn't want to.

The days of trying to save hosts were long gone. Risa kind of hated herself for thinking it was easier this way.

That night, she woke to the sound of someone entering her cabin. She had a gun pointed at him even as she was blinking sleep out of her eyes.

"Hey," he said, holding up a half-empty bottle of whisky. "Just me." He didn't offer her any, but she could taste it in his mouth.

After that night, he seemed worse than before, worse than she'd ever seen him. They continued like this for several months, longer than she ever should have allowed it to go on. Risa didn't know if he was sleeping with anyone else, and she often told herself that she didn't care.

She liked to think she was smarter than the people they rescued, the civilian survivors who believed the things he told them about winning this war, the ones who thought him a hero. But she fell for him, the same as everyone else.

Worse, she knew she'd do it all over again.

* * *

_don't make me sad, don't make me cry  
the road is long, we carry on  
let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain  
choose your last words, this is the last time  
cause you and I, we were born to die_

* * *

PRESENT, PENNSYLVANIA

It hadn't taken long at all for demons to catch up to them.

They'd yet to make it to shelter for the night, and just as they were parking the jeep at the back of some dingy alley, a small pack of demons had jumped them. Dean had one choking on sulfur and brimstone barely thirty seconds from when he'd stepped out of the vehicle. Sam and Castiel fought off the other three, Castiel with his own blade and Sam with his short-barrel until Dean could finish them off. Meg had the last one spitting blood under her superior power, and she wore her satisfaction like a crown when the lesser creature was left spasming at her feet.

"What do you think, Captain Bossy Pants?" she asked in menacing tones. "This one useful?"

"Keep him alive," Dean uttered darkly. He looked upon their conduit for answers with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly, his gaze contrasting sharply with his relaxed pose.

Now, they stood in a small circle around the bound demon—a devil's trap beneath him and four penetrating glares above him. They'd set up in an old abandoned apartment building that was mostly falling apart but still the most fortified shelter on the block. Everything else was more likely to cave in on their heads than anything. The sun was sitting low in the sky, affording them little daylight. Sam brought a lantern over from their supplies, setting it down on a nearby table next to their weapons.

Meg's senses were always on high alert for Croats or other possible hiccups to their little quest, but right now she was craving the good ol' days as she watched Dean carve into the bellowing demon from inside the trap. The surly hunter could be so persuasive when the times called for it. Castiel looked on impassively, Sam too except for the slight twitch of muscle in his jaw that gave him away. Meg wondered if demon blood did the same thing to him now as it had in the past.

"Who do you belong to, Fido? Dickbag or bitch? I won't ask again."

Both of the demon's hands were gone. Gnarled, bloody patterns were carved all over its chest and face, deep gouges dug into its arms. Still, it laughed. "_Crowley_, alright?" it divulged in a breathless snarl. Its chest heaved with the residual aftershocks of its harrowing screams, its eyes black as pitch in the face of Dean's cold resolve.

"Oh, how _is_ the smarmy dick these days?" Meg piped up with a malevolent smile. "Does he know I'm looking for him?"

"Are you?" the demon spat. "You seem more interested in playing lapdog to an angel." A bark of cynical laughter broke free of its abused throat. "How's he doing? _Shitty_. Though, to be honest, I'm not sure if the King's more afraid of you or your boyfriend."

The twisted gratification she felt at that was almost overwhelming. "Just as long as he's afraid, I'm tickled pink."

"Will you shut up?" Dean snapped. Right now, information was paramount. They had bigger fish than Crowley and Dean's vision was tunneled and red. "I'm asking the questions." The light of the lantern threw his face into sharp relief as he turned back on their prisoner, half in shadow, half in light, and his eyes were dark pools of animosity as he shortened the distance between them. "You answer to _me_, you piece of shit. Got it? I'm the one with the knife and the complex. _I_ run the show."

"You're scaring your little brother, Dean," the demon all but sang.

Its voice was pitched low and derisive in an attempt to nettle its tormentor. Dean didn't even look away from its face as he drove the knife into the demon's knee, the wound immediately sputtering brimstone and earning a virulent scream. The hunter considered the result with faked interest. "Guess I lost my patience. Sometimes my manners just plain suck. Tell me honestly… do I really look like I'm in the kind of mood to repeat myself?"

"You run the show," it gasped, the veritable plea for reprieve as hostile as its incisive glare. Dean removed the knife with a baleful twist.

"Let's talk about Abaddon."

"I told you… I'm for _Crowley_, asshole! How would I know anything about carrot top?"

Dean smiled, the gesture showing zero humanity. "You expect me to believe Crowley isn't keeping tabs on his competition? He's either scared to death of her or pissed as hell at her. More than likely both. He's gonna wanna know every move she makes."

It laughed, the sound rasping in its battered throat along with the blood and possible broken teeth. "Last he heard, she was looking for a lieutenant."

"She already has lieutenants. We've had the pleasure of killing several of them."

A gory smile spread the demon's lips. "Not the one she _wants_." Before Dean could ask just what the hell that meant, the demon's eyes slid knowingly to Meg. "Everybody just wants little orphan Annie to come back home…"

Meg snorted, dismissing the insidious voice and all it implied. "The pay sucks, no thanks."

Beside her, Castiel bristled. His eyes narrowed and unconsciously he drifted closer in a manner that was blatantly possessive. Meg rolled her eyes at the territorial move, but inwardly she couldn't help but derive steep pleasure out of being the center of his attention. He looked at the trapped demon in silent disdain, willing answers out of it so that they could kill it already.

"Less watercooler shit," Dean snapped, raising the knife to the demon's eyeline menacingly. "Let's talk game changers or I get bored and turn you into a torso."

"Like _what_?" it practically snarled.

"Like what's her fucking _endgame_! Quit dicking around—you think I don't know Crowley sent you to spill more than just your guts?" Dean's restraint had finally cracked and his temper split wide open. His eye bored into his captive with righteous anger at the obstinate wall standing in his way. "He wants her out of the way as much as we do, so do your damn _job_. Otherwise I'll send you back to your master with nothing to show for it and _he _can deal with you."

The demon abruptly quieted, an eerie dispassion falling over it like a shroud. A faint smile played at its lips as it looked between each of them in turn before its black gaze settled back on Dean. "But if you don't have to work for it, where's the fun in that? For either of us."

Dean's eyes were brilliant with suppressed anger, scratching away at the surface of his composure. "I swear, if you don't—"

"What do you _think_ her endgame is, you miserable ape?" The demon's entire demeanor changed, an unnerving calm opposite the group now. At the tense silence, it gave a disgusted sneer, almost relishing the havoc it caused upon what came out of its mouth next. "To raise Lucifer."

A chilling pause swept over the room, as if the very air around them had solidified. A feeling of nausea was there to season the pervasive dread as the reality of such revelation slowly sunk in.

"Fuck," Sam uttered, voice gone soft with terror. His breath left his lungs in a powerful rush of abject shock, the sudden sense of desperation like a living thing growing inside him. Castiel paled considerably and his eyes went to Meg's face, not quite sure what he was looking for but needing to see her reception of the news. The demon remained utterly nonreactive but for the telltale squeak of leather as her crossed arms tensed over her chest.

Dean had gone utterly still. He closed his eyes for a tumultuous moment, trying to stop the tremor that started from deep within his chest and was pervasively radiating outwards as his worst fears solidified into terrifying reality. Though outwardly he gave no indication he was affected, the beat of his heart pounded against his ribs.

The demon went on, merciless and enjoying their collective anxiety. As though it were proud. "Break him out of the cage, once and for all. The grand finale."

Mouth gone dry, Dean shook his head, feeling as though the room were spinning. "How's she gonna do that? The key's in the cage."

"Lucifer's shut away," Sam said, needing to say it. Needing to remember it himself. The words came out of his throat as a rough rasp, and he cleared it determinedly. "For good. I was _there_."

The demon was unmoved by their conviction. "A ritual."

A harsh breath blew out of Dean's mouth in a scoff. "Of course," he retorted, but there was muted panic behind his eyes.

"_Under the Knight's reign, from the blood of the imprisoned and over a site of imprisonment, the Morning Star shall eternally sever all bonds of his exile. In half a contract's time from the closing of the door, Abaddon must take the life of another who has endured the cage_." It aimed a pointed, compassionless look at Sam. "How poetic that it be the one who locked the devil away in the first place?" It laughed—a hollow, grating sound. "She _wants_ you to come for her, you stupid jackasses."

Every nerve came alive, every fear realized in that single moment. Dean shook his head, numbed by the thought. "She's gonna risk us coming for her with the Blade just for a chance at Sam?"

"It's _Lucifer_," said their captive, the callous reminder coming out harsh and contemptuous. "If you were a demon, wouldn't you?"

Once more, its eyes slid to Meg in appraisal. She smiled tightly, trying to disguise the chill she felt. "Sorry, stumpy. I don't play for your team anymore."

It's jet eyes glittered in the low light. "We'll see."

Castiel, throughout the course of the interrogation, had gone aberrantly quiet. He stared coldly, silently, saying nothing. Blue eyes were stormy and dull, his expression a hollow mask that Meg found inscrutable. His posture was like a sinew pulled taut, ready to snap at any given moment. His hand rested, unmoving, over the holy steel holstered at his thigh. The cold bite of it on his fingers was reassuring and it was a habit he'd kept since the Fall.

Nearby, Sam activated, coming out of his wan daze which dissipated in favor of his mulish persistence for answers. "So, wait—half a contract's time. That's five years."

"Since the closing of the door," Castiel echoed, speaking finally.

Beside him, Meg asked the million dollar question. "When did Bullwinkle lock up Big Daddy?"

"May thirteenth, 2010," Dean said quietly, his answer immediate. His face was set in hard lines, his lips pressed firmly together. The sharp planes of his face seemed even sharper against the harshness of his expression. That date would be forever branded into his mind. "This May is five years from the moment Sammy took a swan dive into the cage."

Sam looked alarmed, his heart starting to race. "That means this is gonna go down in three months."

"_Where_?" Dean posed, the single word clipped and dripping with displeasure.

"Site of imprisonment," Sam recalled of the demon's earlier words, looking at it darkly. "That means Stull Cemetery."

It made a dull buzzer sounding noise, shaking its head. Dean glared down into its face, pinning it with a look that would have left the demon bleeding on the floor if it had been endowed with any physical power. His temper bubbled just beneath the surface, fingers gripped tight around the handle of the knife and itching to spill blood. The cavalier attitude the demon had only intensified the primal urge, and Dean had to ruthlessly tamp it down using every ounce of willpower he had. The darkness within him gathered in spite of his efforts.

"I don't think so," Castiel said pensively, mulling over the information they'd garnered. "Too specific for a spell this archaic. _A_ site of imprisonment. The cage has an array of access points all over the world, given the right magic. It could mean anywhere the door itself has been opened. Stull Cemetery, Detroit, St. Mary's Convent…" He shook his head. "We should research other possible locations—"

"Detroit," Dean answered hollowly.

"How do you know that?" Meg asked, breaking the terrible silence that had fallen over the group.

"It's always Detroit."

Dean's words rang throughout the room not unlike a chilling death knell, setting each and every occupant on edge. The trapped demon appeared deeply gratified at this ultimate conclusion, knowing it was going to die but yet satisfied because it had done what it had been sent to do. It stared into the eyes of its executioner, brash and inciting.

"Run or die screaming, children."

With unforgiving force and clouded torment in his eyes, Dean drove the tip of the blade up into the demon's skull.

* * *

_satan, you know where I lie  
gently I go into that good night  
never armed our souls  
for what the future would hold_

* * *

While on the road, the nights passed like broken glass. They'd exchange watch shifts as they had for the past several, Meg seldom recessing since she didn't require sleep and was the only viable Croat detector they had. This night in particular, they'd settled into the abandoned building for the night, lugging the corpse into a side room until they could deal with it in the morning.

Meg handed Castiel a slip of paper with markings on it she'd drawn, the instructions unspoken but understood. She drew her jacket down off her shoulders, leaving only bare skin and the sheer-backed tank top. Castiel's mouth went unnaturally dry, heat flushing up his neck at the sight.

Meg raised a questioning eyebrow, unmoving as she stared at him.

"That shirt. I like it."

A knowing smile played at the edges of her lips, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. "There's nothing _to_ this shirt, boy wonder. That's why you like it."

"Mm," he grunted, contemplating the validity of that and seeming to decide she was correct.

Castiel remembered first seeing her wear it.

* * *

_Meg had exquisite taste, despite the leather and studded accessories. Such luxuries were hard to come by these days, so rare finds like this were coveted. He remembered walking into their cabin to find her dancing, swaying to a rhythm droning from the radio in the corner as the diaphanous silk hugged her every curve. Finding music was also a rarity, but Meg loved material things. She complained often for the lack of gossip magazines and how everything worth reading was out of print. Today, she wore jeans and that shirt, barefoot and twirling slowly, rolling her hips, looking up at him from under smoky lashes. _

"_Dance with me, hotwings." _

_Much like he did now, his mouth had gone dry then too as she made her way over to him. "I… can't. Dance." _

_Meg brushed against him, running her fingers slowly over the front of his shirt, up his chest, around his neck. "Have you ever tried?" _

_Castiel swallowed hard, unable to look away from the movement of her body and being intensely captivated by it. He gave the barest shake of his head. "No," he murmured. "But some knowledge is inherent." _

"_Exactly," she purred, turning his words against him. "I bet that meatsuit of yours used to cut a rug." Meg saw the confusion at that in his eyes and smirked, letting him puzzle it over on his own. Already she was playing with the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging over the buttons, tugging him just a little closer by the front of it. "Come on, Grumpy. Show me some moves." _

"_I'd rather do other things with you." _

_The heat in his voice, the desire pooled in his eyes, was enough to get to her. Meg forewent her perpetual mission to loosen him up and instead rose up on her toes to capture his mouth with hers. Large hands pressed against the material over her back, sliding over it, gripping at it, and ultimately casting it aside. _

_As alluring as the shirt was, his preference fell on what lay underneath. _

* * *

Now, Meg sat with the elegant curve of her spine displayed before him, having settled together on the wooden floor of the cluttered, candlelit room. Darkness was cheap and a generator would only draw attention they didn't want. The crescent moon afforded them no light, so they had to make do with what they could. Castiel silently considered the markings on the paper he held, a box cutter in his other hand.

If Meg was to be hidden from other demons after her unorthodox means of transportation earlier, this was how. Castiel wasn't happy about it—the thought of carving into her skin left him with a bit of a knot in his stomach—but the alternative options left them little other choice.

"Think you can handle those, Van Gogh?"

"He's the one who cut off his own ear?"

"Seemed appropriate."

Castiel contemplated this as he set aside the slip of paper and drew her hair back across her neck, brushing it gently over one shoulder. "Peculiar thing to do."

"Mental break, declaration of love, who knows."

His eyes raised from the study of her bare skin to regard what little of her face he could see. Dark lashes, the swell of a snowy cheek, the barest curve of ruby lips. "I doubt I would cut off my own ear to show you romantic favor."

"Break my heart, Clarence."

Castiel smiled a little, pressing the blade carefully into her skin and beginning the meticulous process. "I'm not sure how severing a body part could possibly affirm my devotion."

"You never were very creative," she lamented on a sigh, staring ahead into the night afforded by the open window.

* * *

"Here," said Sam, tossing his brother a small wrapped package. In another room on the opposite side of the building, the brothers sat in vigil, their weapons kept close and a case of energy drinks split between them.

"More tuna?" Dean presumed with flat consideration, but as he unwrapped the paper, the words _Little Debbie Apple Pie Snacks_ stared back at him like a beacon from Heaven itself. "Pie. How the fuck did you find pie?"

Sam snorted as Dean shredded the box and a small pile of individually foiled snacks tumbled out. "Found it at the convenience store we hit about a state back." He nodded his head at the one Dean was in the process of tearing into. "Not sure how old they are, but given it's _Little Debbie_, they're supposed to last a generation or something."

Dean had already shoveled in a healthy bite. "Tastes like shit," he said, mouth full. He continued to eat it anyways. "Who knew it'd only take the apocalypse for you to finally get me some damn pie."

Sam chuckled, prying the lid to his canned corn open with his pocket knife. He was glad the small gesture had yielded a positive effect, relieved to see something other than onerous battle-readiness adorning his brother's face. Hell, to see something actually approaching _joy_ in his eyes, no matter how small or how fleeting. It was trivial, but it was a start.

Sam would take whatever small remnants of his brother were left.

* * *

Castiel and Meg had fallen into a comfortable quiet as he worked, pressing the blade deep enough to scar if she forewent healing them and shallow enough to spare her unnecessary discomfort. Several minutes in, Meg glanced over her shoulder at his handiwork, her eyes raking appreciatively over the elegant lattice work of sigils that traversed across her back.

"You're an artist."

Castiel made a quiet sound of acknowledgement as he concentrated. Meg hissed a little at a particularly deep gouge. "Hurts?" his low voice said beside her, drifting in the soft heat between them and over her skin in a way that was almost too intimate.

"Just the magic," she said. "Pain is fine."

Castiel paused in his work and leaned forward, fingers gently caressing down her arms. His lips pressed softly over the skin above the markings, ghosting along her neck to ease the ache. Meg's eyes fluttered shut at the divine sensation, her head tipping back against him. A quiet sound spilled from her, fever waking along her flesh.

"You know, for an angel, you kiss like the devil."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"It is."

She felt his fleeting smile against her skin, strong fingers squeezing over her arms in a gesture of comfort and solidarity before they slid around her to possessively draw her closer. He heard the quiet sigh of satisfaction that escaped her lips as he did so.

"You never used these when hiding from Crowley?" he asked, indicating the sigils.

Meg shook her head slightly. "Felt like the easy way out. Besides, hiding from Crowley was easy. Abaddon is… tougher." The reply was quiet, even somewhat subdued, and it indicated that she was lost in a world of her own for the moment. Glazed eyes fought a war within.

While the Knight and her followers would not attack or seek out Meg at the camp because of sheer impracticality, they'd certainly look for her on the road when there were only four of them against a veritable army. Crowley though didn't know where she nor the camp were located, Meg didn't think. Then there was the very satisfying factor that he was apparently wont to avoid her and Castiel at all feasible costs. Whatever the little treetopper had said to the fallen king seemed to have done the trick—which, unfortunately, made it difficult to find the bastard if she were trying.

It wasn't the first time her company appeared to be privy to her thoughts, so Meg was hardly surprised when his next words broke through the quiet.

"Crowley only found you because of me."

If Castiel was being totally honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he'd been scared out of his mind these past few days. First with the incident of the demon bomb, again at the storage locker, and now most of all with the additional threat of Lucifer's return suspended ominously over their heads. It was a stark, harrowing reminder of times past—times he was determined to forget all about. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he'd intensely wished to avoid placing her in harm's way on this venture. It was a foolish endeavor of course, as Meg was no china doll in danger of being ruined. In fact, she'd probably cut off his ear for even entertaining the thought, no matter what his intentions or how irrational.

Even still… Meg was not invincible. Something he was reminded of every night in his dreams. Guilt ravaged him unexpectedly at the mere mention of Crowley, and he hadn't meant to walk down that road again, but how many more times would she be made to suffer for his mistakes? The answer eluded and disturbed him.

Meg's tone indicated warning. "Cas."

Castiel was insistent, animosity at himself meshing with the indignation he felt on her behalf. "You helped _me_. And because of it…" He broke off, and whether it was deliberate or unintentional remained a mystery even to him. He found himself staring sullenly at the tracks of crimson red that oozed sluggishly out of her skin, his hand splayed reverently now across her back beneath the marks he'd left.

"Hey." Meg twisted to face him, taking in his brooding demeanor. "Nix the pity party. They're annoying."

Castiel stubbornly averted his eyes, though his voice tempered somewhat. "I don't feel pity, I feel anger. I have a tendency to break everything, and it… pisses me off."

Her lips twitched a little at the uncharacteristic remark, her countenance somewhat brightened. He had a tendency to surprise her, even when she was sure she had him figured out. The demon thoughtfully considered him as Castiel appeared to slip into bleak introspection. "Do you ever wonder if maybe you were supposed to be on the other side?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Meg knew that she'd made a mistake in her choice of topic, hurting him deeply somehow. Castiel looked at her as if struck, seeming to crumple in on himself under the weight of sudden, dismayed confusion. "Why would you say that?"

One corner of her mouth lifted in a halfhearted, conciliatory smile, her eyes evidencing chagrin. "This isn't me trying to tempt you to darker pastures, Clarence. It's just a question. Don't answer, if you don't want."

Castiel was frowning, the words having affected him much more than he cared to admit, because he _did_ often think it. The ire appeared to drain from him, a new bone-weariness taking its place. "Sometimes," he admitted tonelessly, and immediately seemed to regret it. His expression was still clouded with inner doubt, and Meg felt irritation at herself for putting it there. Wordlessly, his eyes sought hers for a distraction from such miring thoughts.

She'd taken the box cutter from his hand, digging the blade into the hard wood floor so that a heart appeared beside him. She gave it horns and a little tail, the candlelight playing across her features as she grinned at him. She was a rarity herself, a diamond in the rough that he hadn't realized he'd been looking for until he found it. "Come on," she said coaxingly. "There are better uses for that perpetual grumpiness. More fun ones, too." She'd eased closer, tapered nails scratching lightly under his chin. "Release of aggression and all that."

Castiel reflexively smiled, blue eyes regarding her warmly. Forgivingly. "I don't think our company would appreciate the…" He searched for the word, speaking of course of the Winchesters housed in the adjoining room.

"Free show?" Meg supplied, her smile sharp and lovely in the dark. She toed his thigh with her foot invitingly. "We'll be quiet."

"_You'll_ be quiet?" echoed Castiel in amusement, trace amounts of disbelief lacing his tone as his eyebrows climbed for his scalp.

"And here I thought you liked my being vocal."

"My appreciation for your lack of inhibition would unlikely extend to Sam and Dean," he said with affection, contradicting his own resolve as he slipped closer to her.

"You'd better not be teasing," Meg muttered against his lips, gripping the front of his shirt tightly to prevent escape.

Castiel regretfully drew back, looking her in the eyes with a meager, repentant smile. "Wouldn't it be irresponsible?" With all that was out there intent on capturing them, killing them, eating them, or a combination of all three—it seemed unwise to indulge, given the risk of letting their guard down.

Meg nonetheless groaned at the deprivation, closing her eyes. He'd rebelled against _Heaven_, but he couldn't take twenty minutes to scratch the itch? "I hate you."

Castiel's expression only showed further fondness at her petulance. "Should I pretend to believe that?"

Meg huffed an irritated growl. "All revved up and nowhere to go," she complained, sending him away with a shove.

Castiel's brow quirked, his expression one of mild interest. "I understand that one."

"Give the flying monkey a prize," Meg said, feigning exasperation but convincing neither of them. Well, with any luck, she could feed that hunger in other ways. "When did you last eat, anyway? Might as well load up on carbs now while there's nothing chewing on our necks. Let me see your bag."

"I ate this morning," he said dismissively, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

Meg frowned at him. "Yeah, sixteen hours ago. Where the hell has your appetite gone lately?" she muttered, rummaging in her own pack for what she'd found that day. "_Yum_. Beans and rice," she said with virile contempt, although she tossed the containers at him anyways. "Now we're talking," she said triumphantly then, holding up her prize for him to see.

Castiel's brow drew together distrustfully. It looked like a yellow brick. "What in hell is that?"

"It's a Twinkie, genius. Has a shelf life of like a hundred years." Meg looked eager for him to try it, Castiel just looked unnerved. She held it out to him insistently despite his reluctance. "Eat this, Castiel, or I'll shove it in your goddamn face."

He sighed, holding out his hand as though she were handing him a live grenade.

Meg watched as he peeled away the plastic wrapping, and then gave the spongy shape one last suspicious look before taking a bite. He chewed resignedly at first, and then his expression became thoughtful the longer he did so. That thoughtfulness turned inevitably to delight.

"This is… actually very good." Castiel's eyes had lit up, crinkling at their corners as he smiled. "Did you find any of that French dressing?"

Meg's face fell. "Seriously?"

His owlish stare was fixed on her face, unflinching and now very pointed. Silently, it communicated that he would not be taking another bite until she complied.

"You're going to _ruin_ that Twinkie. How do you expect me to be party to that?"

"You're the one who wanted me to eat," he said—annoyingly diplomatic, as usual.

Meg growled, shoving a hand back into her bag with unneeded force. "Fine. But I can't be held responsible for your Father hitting you with lightning for what you're about to do." Expelling a petulant huff, she flung the mustard packet at his chest which she was pretty sure he caught so deftly just to spite her. "And it's _French's_. Not French dressing."

"Thank you," he said, tearing it open and splurting it all over the unsuspecting snack cake.

Meg glared at the horrendous affront, a look of true disdain marring her body's face. "Fucking weirdo."

Castiel had this disgusting habit where he liked to put mustard on fucking everything. Meg was almost eighty percent certain he did it just to piss her off.

As he bit into the defiled Twinkie, he had the audacity to look as though he were back in Heaven, uttering soft moan that had Meg digging bloody little crescents into her palms. His eyes slid back open, falling on her almost slyly. "Would you like some?"

"Don't you come anywhere near me with that thing."

She pinned him down with her most severe expression, although Castiel wasn't intimidated. After interminable military service on heavenly battlefields, one sassy demon just wasn't very threatening.

"Meg, try it."

"You'd better back the hell up, because I really will shove it in your face."

Castiel was invading her personal space, holding what had once been a delicious Twinkie very near the danger zone in front of her face. "Meg, open your mouth."

She gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, I've heard that before."

"I've noticed you're most provocative when you're either bored or nervous. I actually find it endearing."

"You know what I _don't_ find endearing?" she retorted, pressing back against the wall in retreat, trying to escape his coercion. "Putting mustard on a fucking Twinkie." With her superior strength, she easily could have overpowered him, but she was laughing despite herself, hands pressed to keep him back although he skirted her frenzied attempts to do so.

"You've never tried it, Meg. How do you know you won't like it?" His free hand gripped both of hers, and his blue eyes were injected with laughter at her expense. Too often it was the other way around.

He _was_ doing this on purpose, the little shit! "I may be a hellspawn, but I _do_ have moral standards and _that_, angel, is a pastry abomination."

"That's very dramatic," he chastised, one arm snaking around her waist to pull her in as she batted him away. Her jaw was jutted out obstinately, her fortitude a wall of imperishable resolve. Castiel abandoned all efforts then, leveling her with a devastating, doe-eyed stare. "Please try it, Meg. For me?"

_Oh hell_, that face. Despite the intensity of it, Meg remained unmoved. "I do plenty of shit for you."

Castiel decided that discretion was the better part of valor and he didn't comment on just how many times Meg had demanded he bow to her whims. "That's true," he admitted, and for a moment she thought he'd conceded defeat. A smug exclamation of _ha!_ was just about to leave her parted lips at the apparent capitulation when suddenly he shoved the remainder of the treat into her mouth. "But then again, I did allow you to handcuff me to the bed last week."

Meg let out an undignified squeal as the loathed morsel of food invaded the sanctity of her taste buds. "_Ugh_, it tastes like a dog shit on a pile of more shit!" With little other choice but to either stomach it down or spit it out—which felt too much like a surrender—Meg shoved against him, still reviled by the truly abhorrent taste that continued to haunt her. "I'm never having sex with you again."

Castiel actually laughed. "We'll see which of us adheres to that threat longer." He leaned in, kissing and curling his tongue over the evidence of his betrayal to sweep it from her face. "I'm culturing you towards new flavors," he murmured. She truly was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, surly expression and all.

"I'm gonna culture you in the flavor of groin kicks," Meg said frostily against his lips. What was most abhorrent of all was that, once the taste had robbed enough time from her tongue, it wasn't as entirely horrible as she made it out to be. She would, of course, never utter that revelation aloud.

Castiel moved up her body to capture her mouth once more and Meg shelved her annoyance for the time being. Still, she tried to decide whether to be outraged for the underhanded move or mollified that he was out of the doldrums and out of his mind, instead. Not to mention the fact that his underhandedness always secretly impressed her.

When he drew back, Meg gave him her best disapproving glare but his chagrined smile and unspoken apology won her over, softening the damage. Her eyes sparkled at him. "Next time find another culinary guinea pig, you lunatic."

The lazy insult rolled right off his back.

The gratitude at her willingness to indulge him was evident in his face. To appease her, Castiel dug into the other morsels of food they'd either packed or scavenged along the road. He felt again that familiar, hollow pit in his stomach that never seemed to want to be filled, but ignored it for the time being. The rice had little taste to begin with, so he was able to go through the motions without much given thought.

"Anymore sigils, or will what I've done suffice?" he asked.

Meg gave her shoulders an experimental roll. "Stings like a bitch, so we're good. Stupid inconvenience, though. I should have just told Dean to suck it. I'm not his personal Betty Crocker."

"I'm glad you didn't tell him that. I… don't like it, but it's important we find this Blade." Castiel's features were drawn at the reminder of what they were chasing, whatever short-lived appetite he'd had now deserting him completely. His eyes fell back on her, conveying esteem. "I appreciate you coming."

"Didn't do it for humanity. I try to avoid the good deeds." Meg tossed him a wink, lips curving into one of her impish smirks. "I imagine it's habit-forming."

Castiel smiled at her softly. "I know you didn't do it for them."

"You'll have to carve me up again tomorrow night, Hannibal." She glanced back over her shoulder at the scabbing wounds. She could already feel them starting to heal, despite her efforts to impede the process.

"What if we cured you?"

The words lanced through her like the bite of a blade, stunning her into silence. Marauded through the space between them, innocent but deadly in their own way, and it set her back a bit. She knew of course why he said it—if the catalyst for other demons tracking her was in fact her own demonic power, why not remove that catalyst? He'd said it so calmly, so objectively, but Castiel's eyes spoke volumes and he stared at her intensely, knowing what such a thing would mean for her. For them.

His eyes were completely serious, revealing what she already knew in that he would never make light of such matters or her concerns over them. He was asking because it would be her choice alone. Her decision.

The sudden intensity of it had Meg wanting to look anywhere but at him, and a haunted feeling descended over her bones. She looked away, out into the night, taking a moment to collect herself. That was another thing—those five simple words should not have had such an effect on her.

"No," she said, speaking not to him, but to the stars overhead, to herself. Already she harbored too much guilt over the things she'd done in Hell and on earth, and being in proximity to Castiel—especially when he'd had his grace—it did things to her. It changed her in ways that left her feeling ruined and yet made new, shedding light on the blackest corners of her twisted soul, or at least what remained of it.

It made her more… _human_.

Meg couldn't possibly cope with the mortal guilt that such a permanent transformation would provoke from her. It would destroy her, she was sure. _No_.

Castiel was quiet. He let his fingers drift over her hands, bottomless gaze combing over her carefully. Meg's avoidant eyes fought a much different war now, one no one else could see but that he could inherently feel. "Alright," he conceded softly, nodding his head in understanding. He regretted the pained expression she wore now, knowing that he had inadvertently been the one to put it there.

Reluctantly, Meg's gaze eased back to his. "You didn't put up much of a fight," she remarked.

"Did you want me to?"

"You could have genied me back as a human," she said instead, needing to escape that question. She never did realize either how much she needed to know why he didn't.

His expression was serene in the face of her restiveness, his voice holding the weight of unadorned sincerity. "I like you the way you are."

Meg gave a self-deprecating snort, and her defiance of that was fast. "What, _broken_?"

"You wouldn't be you without the thorns."

"More poetry," she riposted irritably, averting her eyes at the startling confession that moved her in ways she refused to acknowledge. She looked stubborn and unwilling to talk again and he sighed.

"You asked."

With a delicate grunt, Meg was determined to drop the subject. But Castiel was Castiel, always and never anything less.

"Why did you sell your soul, Meg?"

"Who says I sold it? Maybe I'm just a bad person." Meg crossed her arms over her chest, staring down at the heart she'd carved into the floorboards with distaste, determined to close herself off from his prodding questions. Damn it, she didn't want to go through this again. He already knew the story—whether or not he remembered it was no fault of hers. But his piercing gaze hit her like a truth serum, a wrecking ball against her defenses. The sense of déjà vu put her on edge, itching to smoke out of her body despite that such a move would be utterly childish.

Castiel continued to stare at her, not accepting her diversion tactic for a moment, and Meg sighed. The instinctive openness she felt around him could sometimes be ridiculous, and the way he constantly disarmed her with his transparent warmth was disconcerting.

"It was for a man. He was dying, I saved him. Happy?"

"What happened?" he asked.

Castiel had that look of compassion he often wore for her, wordlessly conveying his calmness and surety to her. The graveled tone brought with it a small measure of comfort, and Meg shrugged. "Left me for a prettier model?" she tried to joke, but the way her voice caught belied the lighthearted barb and her facile smile fooled no one. "I don't know. I never saw him again."

Still, Castiel wanly tried to smile at her attempt at lightness, but it was unconvincing. He saw her as she bore down brutally on the unwanted and repellent emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Saw her efforts to lock them back away so that she could return to pithy teasing words and sharp smiles. But instead there was a quiet sort of sadness dwelling somewhere in the chambers she often kept hidden. "I have not met anyone more remarkable, more _beautiful_, so he must have been a fool."

The concept of beauty to angels greatly differed than what humanity often found captivating. They were created beyond such limitations, though that in turn often left them limited. But, like any creature, they could be mesmerized. Entranced. It was a trait that could sometimes leave them either greatly shortsighted, or deeply intuitive. They were chaotic because grace was pure energy, pure Creation. They were wild and untamed and yet so perfectly composed. When he'd looked at Meg as an angel, he saw before him a similar beast. Instead of that familiar knot of energy, there was a tangle of thorns that was not so unlike his own chaos. He had the universe in his makeup, she was a byproduct of lost hope. Both were inherently empty.

Castiel, as an angel, had found beauty in the imperfect. And he was hopelessly drawn to her from the start. As a human, his fall was at last complete because he was constantly seeing her in new ways that had eluded him before. Castiel had looked on Meg through both filters—eternity and transience—and each glimpse had left him irrevocably consumed.

It would be his greatest downfall. It had cursed him, damned him, but hers was the only beauty he saw remaining in the world, and he would surely burn because of it. Because Meg… Meg had left him marked in ways there was no washing clean.

He looked quietly outraged on her behalf, the words still ringing in the air between them. Meg sighed, her gaze falling away in defeat. "You're an idiot." He knew what she looked like. Even if he could no longer look see the face of her monster, he sure as hell had to remember it.

But Castiel was as mulish as he was nice to look at. "I know your real name, do you really think I don't know your human face?"

Both were unspeakably beautiful to him, and though he sometimes found himself losing traces of what she truly looked like from his memory after so long being deprived, he would never forget what the sight of it had made him feel, the passion it so often drew out of him. The face she was born with stood out to him as well, a familiar visage he couldn't recall finding but had always been there in the back of his mind, reminding him that, once, his demon had been filled with hope. With humanity.

He knew her _real_ face. The face she wore before being disfigured by thorns, before hellfire, and before she'd picked up the blade and spilled her first drop of blood in that wretched pit.

At those words, Meg's features softened, hard lines falling away. Her eyes darted back to his only to find them riveted to her face, and she looked almost regretful. Perhaps even guilty. Those impenetrable defenses broke down again, leaving behind a _raw_, vulnerable husk. A thought came to her and she frowned, an all-too-familiar stab of pain piercing her chest. "When you say things like that…" she whispered, hating and needing him all at once. Wishing desperately she could tell him how close he was, how he was treading right over history without even realizing it.

She didn't like talking about her innermost feelings or what plagued her so deeply. The first time a person finally opened up and confessed such things it was an instant relief and she remembered that feeling like the drug it was. She'd felt lighter, a little more in control. It became addicting, confiding in him. Soon enough she'd been spilling her guts about every little insecurity or fear she'd ever had, but it was a trap. Because by talking about them, those insecurities multiplied and swarmed her like locusts. As soon as she'd confessed one, she found herself tripping over another. And then she'd realized that the one person she had ever confided in and trusted so completely had started looking at her differently. Soon, that realization became the very thing that haunted her most.

But then… Castiel had always looked at her differently. No one ever looked at her the way he did—whether she was human, demon, or somewhere trapped between.

Yet she may as well have never confided in him at all.

"What?" Castiel asked softly, his head falling to the side. He watched her armor as it started to crack, and she allowed him to reach up and brush his thumb across her marred cheek without flinching, letting him try to heal what lay underneath with his magic touch, if only for his own peace of mind. There was still trace evidence of damage the demon bomb had wrought, and he frowned when the candlelight revealed it.

"You should've found me then," she murmured, shivering a bit despite that she wasn't supposed to be affected by the cold. He saw a shadow of pain race across her face, and then it was gone.

"I barely knew myself then, Meg." Remorse twisted the words into a sad arrangement. He watched the combination of shame, discomfort, and reluctance as it crept over her expression in varying degrees, regret making his chest ache.

He wouldn't have been much help to her at all. He was a grain of sand in the desert, then. In any case… he was here for her now. And he'd be the one to do it, should the day ever come. He'd be the one to cure Meg. Not Dean, not Sam. His blood. His voice. His confession.

A new solemnity stretched between them and Castiel reached out to link their hands to maintain that connection. "It's a wonder you remember being human," he remarked in admiration.

"I remember a lot of things," she muttered, unwilling to look at him now. "None of them seem to matter."

She was pulling herself back together, retreating from him as she often did. But there was an ominous knell to those words that had never been there when she'd distanced herself before, and it gave Castiel pause. It seemed to always be specific topics that triggered her withdrawal, and he didn't understand it. So often lately it felt as if there was something she was keeping from him. He'd always assumed it was simply the byproduct of her emotional reticence, which was expected and something he'd long ago embraced. But at the hooded guilt in her eyes she wasn't quite quick enough to conceal from him, Castiel felt a strange flicker of doubt pass through him. A small voice in the furthest place of his mind became suddenly restless.

_Be_ _careful_, it whispered.

Mortified at the thought, Castiel mentally hurled it away. He'd only ever trusted a small handful of people in this world, and even fewer of them he trusted unfailingly. So when that poisonous, little eddy of doubt rose into his mind about her without warning it left him with a burgeoning sense of panic. Why would he even think such a thing? Meg was trustworthy, of course she was. She'd proven herself time and again. Castiel also knew her like no one else, and that did give him certain insights. That same voice reminded him of this, and he withheld a shudder.

It was the threat of Lucifer making him doubt, he thought. It was the stress that was getting to him, the constant strain of living in a fallen world that was unsettling them both. It was her erratic regression and that demon's seed of discord from earlier that night. The risk Abaddon posed, the threat of being found and captured—that's what was eating at her. His own deal was likely adding to that worry—Meg had never been quiet about her feelings on the matter. The war of Croatoan was making them both desperate and afraid. That's all it was.

That's _all_ it was.

"What?"

Her voice pulled him back from the brooding desert that had swallowed him, and Castiel started a bit. "Nothing," he replied, mentally shaking himself of the sinister voice.

Meg looked doubtful at his muttered denial, her dark eyes sweeping over him studiously. He surprised her then.

Castiel leaned forward, regardless of that withdrawal and despite such off-putting thoughts, taking her face in both hands and pressing a lingering, tender kiss to her lips. If only to ease his own peace of mind and reaffirm that she was his and that he was a fool for ever doubting. "Sleep," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "I don't sleep."

"Rest, then. I'll keep watch."

Two dark eyebrows climbed for her scalp. "Oh, you can sense Croats now?"

"I can relieve you for an hour."

"Wish you'd relieve me in other ways for an hour."

Castiel chuckled—a rare, crooked smile splitting his face. "Don't tempt me."

He punctuated his words by hooking a finger into the waistband of her jeans beneath the belt, giving a gentle tug. The corners of her mouth flickered slyly. "I _am_ a demon, although you seem determined to forget it."

He delivered another chaste kiss to her lips, descending beside her and feeling much of that residual tension finally drain away. "As determined as you are to forget that I'm human," he replied, voice betraying the careworn fatigue that was settling heavily over him.

Her fingers carded thoughtfully through his hair, playing softly at the dark ends. She watched his face for a time as he stared out the window and into the night, reflecting silently to herself.

Meg never told him that she would butcher any and every hellhound that might come for him. That if one slipped past her by chance, she would tear the basement apart. Unleash her own hell on Perdition until she found him. She knew of damnation, and she'd make sure he never would, if it was the last thing she ever did. Castiel would not become like her.

She died for him once. She'd do it again—a hundred times over.

* * *

_slings and arrows are killing me inside  
maybe I can't accept the life that's mine  
the sun shines and I can't avoid the light  
ashes to ashes and dust to dust_

* * *

The sun would rise in a few hours and they'd move again. It was dangerous to travel at night—hell, it was dangerous to travel at all. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Sam questioned this course of action and the decisions leading up to it. Knowing what they did now, they needed the Blade. Without a doubt. Abaddon could not be allowed to raise Lucifer. Sam felt a sick churning in his gut at the very thought, his fingers tightening over his weapon so hard that his knuckles splashed white. Memories of the cage assaulted him, haunted him, tormented him. He cringed away from the mental images, needing them to disappear. He adjusted his weapon, holding it tighter against his shoulder, needing to stand up, needing to move.

Sam got to his feet, not caring that his brother barely acknowledged his exit. The logical, rational part of his brain knew that if he was to turn his head, he would see Dean there, guarded stare fixed out the window, but part of him was unconvinced. That part knew that if he turned his head, there would be nothing there. No Dean at all.

As he wandered the halls, his thoughts turned to the camp. Dean had left Ezekiel and Risa in charge. Charlie and Garth were handling the runs, and Sam had promised to keep his silence over the fact that Kevin had started tagging along with them. The prophet wasn't a child anymore. He was a man. A young man determined to make his own decisions and to pull his weight. Kevin wanted to make a difference, he wanted a voice. Sam couldn't deny him that even if he wanted to.

He paused at the threshold of the North facing room, the sight therein catching his eye. "Hey," he muttered in greeting, offering a slight nod.

"Salutations, Bullwinkle," Meg returned amicably.

Castiel was wedged into the corner, fast asleep against the wall, weapon still in hand. There was an old mattress tossed haphazardly on the floor which they sat on, and Meg was leaning at the windowsill, keeping solitary vigil. Her feet rested in Castiel's lap, and Sam saw the dried blood on her bare shoulders from the spell work.

Meg followed the hunter's eyes to her companion and gave a quiet chuckle. "Thinks he's a badass. Poor bastard lasted maybe five minutes before he conked out." Sam smiled a little, comforted somehow by the exchange. Meg lost some of hers, though, eyes drifting back to Castiel almost achingly. "He pushes himself too much sometimes."

She wasn't the only one who often forgot he was human. Castiel seemed to continually reject his new limitations, usually to the point of injury or serious health repercussions. Sam saw the genuine worry displayed there, worn features softening almost imperceptibly. "You really care about him, don't you?"

That caught her attention. Meg glanced back in his direction, some of that spark returning. "You still need to ask?"

No, he supposed he didn't. Sam felt the beginnings of a real smile take hold, one of relief. Meg wasn't going to leave Castiel. If she hadn't by now, what exactly were they all worrying about?

Meg had stayed behind. She had told Sam to go, and she'd fought Crowley alone so that Cas would get the chance to escape. She might have included he and Dean in her final goodbye, but Sam knew damn well that Meg didn't give two shits about them. She'd stayed behind for one person, and one alone.

Sam thought that Meg understood what it meant to find someone you were willing to break all the rules for. Someone who could make you want to change everything about what you were, who brought out something better in you. She knew she was going to die, but she'd gone with a smile, with peace, because she knew it meant Castiel was going to live.

"What the hell," Meg muttered then, really surprising him. "Got your back, too, Samson. Neither one of us is going to let the Big Bad Wolf get his claws into you again."

A dark eyebrow arched for his hairline. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'll be the one to kill the son of a bitch if he crawls back out of his hole."

The sheer _conviction_ behind the declaration was powerful, and Sam shook his head, surprised and not quite believing it. "You'd destroy your creator?"

"I watched him destroy something of mine for months," she said quietly, eyes straying back to Castiel. Maybe he didn't remember the torment he'd faced day and night with visions of the devil, but she did. "Crowley, the pompous prick, he was right. Castiel was right. Lucifer never gave a damn about me. About any of us."

Sam deliberated over her words, weighing the revelation there with a pensive frown. As much as he believed Meg was in Castiel's corner, Sam had witnessed the sight of her fighting for the other side. _Believing_ in the other side. _Loyalty and love_, she'd told him once—the primal motivators behind her every action in the old days when she'd been one of the most ruthless enemies they'd ever opposed.

Meg might have loved Castiel, but she was still a demon.

"Someone might think you were playing both sides, Meg," Sam remarked, not kindly, not unkindly.

After all, one could smile and smile and still be a villain.

If she was offended by that, she didn't show it. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see then, won't you?"

Sam smirked at that, almost appreciating the banter as it took his mind off of other things. He'd seen too much to _really_ doubt Meg, but the uncertainty and longstanding distrust was still there, despite any mutual respect they harbored towards each other now.

Meg turned reflective then, eyes combing over her sleeping companion. "If it came down to it, who's side do you think he'd choose?" she wondered aloud.

There was no malice to the question, just simple curiosity. Sam considered that, not entirely sure himself these days.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

Together, they watched the sun break over the horizon.

* * *

_there was a brighter day where I could view the world  
without the sorrows that I've known  
now it's a different place  
my heart's grown colder  
crawling closer, so save your kiss goodbye  
__even though the innocence is scarred  
what if I could feel, what if I could see again_

* * *

When the first fingers of dawn licked at the sky, Dean felt a faraway sense of clarity. Something that had been stirring in him for some time buzzed incessantly at the back of his thoughts. As his eyes roamed over the marching hills intertwined in the distance, he felt an outlying pull. Something inside him called out to his prize. Somehow, he knew the Blade was his. And that as much as it belonged to him, he belonged to it. His eyes flickered over the grim daybreak beyond the window and what awaited there.

Unbidden, new feelings replaced that certainty.

Dean felt dread. He felt anger, he felt _afraid_. Memories of that day in Stull Cemetery played in a loop, branded into the backs of his eyes so that there was nowhere for him escape to. Sam—killing Cas, killing Bobby. Nearly killing _him_. Except it wasn't Sam, not at all—but then, suddenly, it _was_.

Hearing the words: _It's okay, Dean_.

Watching is brother disappear into that dark pit and the earth swallowing him up as though he'd never been there at all.

One year without Sam.

One year knowing his little brother was suffering unimaginable torment in Hell, in Lucifer's _cage,_ alongside the devil himself.

_Never again_, Dean vowed.

Abaddon would not take Sam. And she sure as _hell_ would not being raising Lucifer back into the world.

The First Blade would soon be is, and he would put a stop to it. To all of it. All those sons a bitches' best laid plans—he would tear it down around them and he'd do it with a smile. What else did he have to lose?

Dean saw red. Maybe this was the motivation he needed—another pissant threatening his family. Another demon with a scheme. Another monster looking to set the world on fire. Well, this was _his_ world. And if anybody was gonna light the match, it'd be Dean fucking Winchester. He had almost a century's worth of demons to purge. Forty on earth, thirty in Hell, and however little more he had left.

The First Blade _would_ bring him that clarity he so desperately needed. Fingers curling into fists at his sides, Dean could already feel the phantom weight of it in his hand.

* * *

_lose your faith in a world  
the truth you're not supposed to know  
walk the wire  
with all I am, I stand alone  
in fields that I have grown_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"How's your side of the camp, Rees?"

Risa looked surprised he even asked, though her answer was nearly robotic. "Good, for now. We could use more bedding. Pillows."

"Bedding?"

"Yeah, you know. For _sleep_? Did you forget what that was?"

The sarcasm was positively dripping with hostility, but Dean bit back the retort that swelled on his tongue and conceded defeat. "Fine. I can give you some guys. Take Donovan and one of the angels."

"I will go," Ezekiel offered, extending the woman a favorable nod.

"Uh, thank you." Risa seemed grateful of that, unsure how to take it. Something akin to mutual respect passed between them silently. She didn't quite know how to behave around angels as a general handicap. It wasn't that she didn't care for them—quite the opposite. She just couldn't help but silently revel in awe whenever she was around one. Couldn't wrap her head around the fact that they existed or that they were so… tangible. Cas had been an angel, she'd heard, but he was easy to talk to. Well, on a sociable level. Sometimes she had no idea what the hell was coming out of his mouth and it was clear the sentiment was mutual. The only one who seemed to have the patience and aptitude in dealing with him was that demon. But Risa wasn't touching that with a ten foot pole.

Ezekiel, having only recently been introduced to him, seemed approachable and ultimately very kind. He was good to have in a fight—that much was proven the week before when he'd singlehandedly leveled a small bevy of Croats that had wandered too near the camp. He hadn't outright smote them, but Risa remembered seeing that blur of holy steel as it tore through one throat after another and thinking she would never forget the sight in a hundred years. Her own curiosity betrayed her in that she often found herself contemplating what it would have been like to see him in full form. But angels nowadays were apparently too affected by the Fall to accomplish such feats without physical consequences. She harbored envy for Dean and Sam—having gotten to see such displays, and so often. Further, Risa was most envious because maybe her fiancée would still be alive if she'd had an angel, too.

"So…" Dean cut in. "The reason I brought you two here. Got a big job coming up and me and the other bigwigs won't be around for a couple weeks. Leaving you and Zeke in charge."

Risa rolled her eyes. "Shit, thanks."

"Hey. Would you rather be an errand girl?" He stared at her in utter frustration, but his anger seemed to have leached from him. "I picked you because you're smart and can handle yourself."

_Because I trust you_, went the unspoken, though Dean would never utter those words aloud ever again.

Risa maintained her detached silence, her impassive stare seeming to say: _Spare me_.

Dean reined in yet another mordant remark, determined to keep this short summit impersonal and direct. "While you're out, stock up on weapons, because we'll be taking a lot of them with us. Gonna need more than usual."

A single dark eyebrow raised dryly for her hairline. "Fine. Are we done here?"

Things were still tense between them. They had yet to talk out what had happened, and Dean doubted they ever would. Truthfully, he didn't really want to. He didn't have the time or the patience, especially when they were so close to finding the Blade and to putting a stop to everything that was currently wrong with the world as they now knew it.

And yet… her attitude raised his hackles and left him with a feeling of angry indignance. "Sure. Go spread some of those menstrual toxins over the rest of the camp. I think you missed the East sector."

"Asshole," she muttered, the slam of the door punctuating her departure.

Dean seemed to tense up like a snake before it struck, but he stared at the space where Risa had been long after she was gone, a muscle working in his jaw. Ezekiel observed the exchange with a somewhat out-of-place curiosity. He wondered if this was what _pining_ looked like. If it was, Dean Winchester wore it like crown.

"She seemed very upset."

"Yeah, she's pissed at me still," Dean muttered, digging the bottle of whiskey he'd been nursing earlier out of the cabinet. Unlike his brother before him, Dean offered his company none of the bottle's contents.

"Do you love her?" Ezekiel wondered.

Dean nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

Ezekiel seemed somewhat abashed that he'd made some sort of faux pas, and the expression reminded Dean too much of Cas. "I suppose that was a little out of turn for me to ask."

"A little," Dean grunted, but he looked mildly amused behind the glass he held in his hand. "You're about as shitty at reading the room as your brother is."

Ezekiel smiled at that, rueful. "He means well."

"Yeah, sure. He always does." Dean took a long pull before pouring himself another helping. Additionally, he wondered why the angel was still there, but figuring so long as he was, he'd derive some long sought after answers that had been eluding him. "How do you feel about him hooking up with a demon?"

Ezekiel frowned at the implication there. "Castiel is his own man. His _decisions_ are his own."

Dean's regard of that sentiment was derisive and critical. "Some brother you are."

"Being an older brother does not indicate authority over your siblings, Dean," said the angel somberly. The low notes of his voice were disapproving, but ultimately benign. "You think Castiel's mistakes are your brother's mistakes, except Castiel is not your brother. He is mine. And Sam is not the man he once was, either. He's grown to become something truly venerable. He has found purpose, Dean." Ezekiel's eyes were solemn, insistent in that quiet, powerful way he had. "My brother loves this demon woman, and I am glad for him. He has found something virtually _unattainable_ in this fallen world, and... I believe she is good for him. They complement one another. He is a civilizing influence, and she challenges him in ways Castiel has never been challenged. And while he may have been your friend for seven years, he has been my brother for several thousand. Do not forget that."

"Yeah, well…" Dean looked away, a shadow of anger skirting across drawn features. "You don't know Meg like I do."

"That is true," Ezekiel tactfully conceded. "Although I do not think you know her as Castiel does, either."

Well. That was certainly true.

"You have a right to your anger, I'm certain of that. But... consider that Castiel has nothing else to hold on to."

Dean relinquished the dispute with a healthy guzzle from the bottle itself. He stared fixedly at its contents as he swallowed down the burning liquid, thinking that perhaps he could find answers in the murky amber surface. A peculiar openness befell him then, perhaps surprising them both. "You want to know if I love Risa? I… told her I did."

Ezekiel's head canted slightly to the side. Dark eyes puzzled over the quandary. "Seems a terrible thing, to say something you do not mean," he said quietly. "Why did you do this?"

A humorless bark of laughter gusted out of the hunter and he shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Believe it or not, it wasn't self-serving. I just… I don't think I even know what love feels like anymore. Don't think I'm capable of it anymore." He turned away from his company, moving to fetch another bottle when the one he had became empty.

"Have you told her so?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should."

Dean glanced over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "You've sure got a lot to say."

Ezekiel smirked. "Guardian by nature. You'll have to forgive me."

The hunter's brow drew together, his understanding of that unclear. "Guardian, huh? Thought that was just another manmade bedtime story? Fluffy wings, Michael Landon, all that BS. Cas gave me the whole soldier speech years ago."

Ezekiel seemed amused by the cynicism rather than offended, although the mention of Castiel in conjunction with it brought him regret. "Some angels are guardians, though not every human has one. There are special cases. It's…" the angel frowned, looking lost in dismal reflection, "an outdated practice. Very few guardians even acknowledge their bonds, not since before the dark ages." Ezekiel appeared deeply sad. As though pieces of himself were missing and no longer within his grasp. "Very few would even know their bond if they met them. So many of us have forgotten what it means. Or have been made to."

"Not you, though?"

Ezekiel shook his head. "All my charges have since passed, though I will never forget them. What it meant to protect them, watch over them."

"What, so… guardians love their bonds?"

"In different ways. An angel would do anything for its charge. The human is the beginning and the end for them, viewed as infinitely precious and to be protected and cared after at all costs. The connection is pure devotion."

Somewhat absorbed now, Dean asked, "Why stop assigning them?"

Ezekiel's expression was quietly outraged. "Our superiors thought it distracting. Too much time spent dedicated to single ephemeral lives. To Earth, instead of Heaven."

"Huh," Dean murmured, intrigued despite himself. "That sucks."

"It did. _Suck_." Ezekiel sighed, surprising Dean when he moved to acquire a glass of his own, holding it out in indication that the hunter should fill it with alcohol. "So many souls left without aid, without guidance. It was devastating to them, yes, though they never knew what they had lost. But to _us_… guardians would readily die for their charges, and to sit back and do nothing as they suffered… it was not unlike torture."

_You cannot save people. You can only love them, _went the saying.

But he was not built to do nothing. He was not wired to observe. He was a Protector, not a Watcher. Ezekiel looked appraisingly at the hunter, his powerful presence conveying amity. "You have a guardian heart, Dean. I can see it, no matter your attempts to bury it. Your purpose is to protect. You are a shield." At Dean's derisive snort, Ezekiel chuckled. "You deny it through words and actions, but it's still there. Something like that does not go away just because the earth fell to desolation. If anything, it's made that calling stronger."

Dean spread his hands, shrugging dispassionately. "That's a nice theory, Zeke. But I can promise you that all I care about is finding that Blade and sticking it through that demon bitch's heart."

Ezekiel's eyes were sad, but a small smile played at his mouth nonetheless. "You may surprise yourself."

* * *

_tonight I will bring you home  
I will save you from yourself  
wash the old from the sand  
burn the rough drafts from yesterday  
take this life by the hand  
release the young man trapped inside  
grip your weapon of choice_

* * *

PRESENT, MISSOURI

Nightfall was approaching when the jeep pulled up the dirt driveway of the coordinates gleaned from their location spell. As they all got out of the vehicle, Sam was the first to speak.

"How the hell is this place still standing?" he wondered, confused by their surroundings.

Dean shared the sentiment. He scrutinized the area almost angrily, distrust swirling in his eyes and a sixth sense telling him something wasn't adding up. "No fortifications, _nothing_."

The remark was somewhat disjointed, those eyes constantly roaming, scanning the encroaching darkness around them covertly, looking for any movement and straining his ears for any unexpected sound. There were crops in the field, perfectly kept—the site seemingly _untouched_ by the devastation Abaddon had wrought over the last two years. The grass was green, the foliage healthy, the quaint farmhouse utterly intact and looking as though it were lived in and not vacated or quarantined like every other house in the country. And there were fucking bees everywhere.

Castiel frowned, shooing away a buzzing insect that darted in front of his face. His brow sat wrinkled and confounded on his forehead at what they were seeing, and the bees were as much an oddity as they were an _impossibility_. He found little enjoyment to them now, despite the brief sense of nostalgia he felt. He glanced at Meg, about to comment on the matter to her.

But the demon had stopped in her tracks, hackles raised, eyes slicking to black. She actually looked afraid. "Shit."

All eyes darted to her. "What?" Sam prompted, alarmed by the shift.

"Should have known." Meg was beginning to panic, losing her nerve. She _knew_ she'd felt something dark when they were driving up. Very_, execrably_ dark. Castiel was already at her side, concern washing over his face because _fuck_, Meg never got scared.

"_What_, Meg?" demanded Dean, his patience long departed.

"The Blade's with its owner, genius," she snapped. "_Shit_."

Sam looked between the both of them, at a loss and feeling the little hairs on the back of his neck rise in dread. "Who's its owner?"

Castiel had lost most of his color, his blue eyes darting to Meg's face in alarm. "The Father of Murder."

Dean shook his head, not comprehending their sudden anxiety. "Who the hell is that?"

"_Cain_, you jackass," Meg hissed, the words settling over them all like an anchor. Her black eyes flicked back to normal, and she looked around in worry, as though she thought they should make a quick exit while they still could.

Sam was taken aback, stunned dismay filling his expression. "As in _Cain and Abel_?"

"Doesn't change anything," said Dean, ignoring their heeds. Brash determination had flooded his countenance, making him unreachable to protest. "We came here for a reason."

"And what reason might that be?" came a new voice.

The foursome turned, startled, to find a weathered-looking man regarding them with grim disapproval. His beard was graying in places, his frown cutting like hard slate over gravel. He was tall enough to look Dean in the eyes with a glacier cold stare that hid a thousand buried secrets beneath their blue surface.

Dean felt an immediate, heinous pull, and he knew then in that moment that he was condemned.

* * *

_all is numb, I've been lost too long  
my fate's been mistakenly chosen  
I've done you wrong  
where lies are spread wide open  
and ties are not so strong  
the place you'll never find me  
I've already gone_

* * *

"If you're so scared of him, zap out of here."

The four travelers sat, somewhat uncomfortably, on one of the couches in the home's furnished living room.

"What, and leave my angel?" Meg retorted at the surly hunter. She shook her head, fingernail picking anxiously at a loose thread over one of the cushions. "My heart didn't grow three sizes, smartass. I couldn't zap out of here even if I wanted to. Cain's doing something to me."

Beside her, Castiel took that revelation with evident unease. "You're blocked?"

"More or less."

"How do you get unblocked?" Sam wondered from the opposite end, considering their options.

"Fiber helps," Meg replied snidely, earning a scowl from the larger hunter. When he was ignored, Sam sniffed and sat back into the cushions, staring ahead petulantly.

"Look," Dean began, sounding peeved. "I don't give a shit whether you're stuck here or not. As long as you _are_ here, make yourself useful and give us some backstory."

"You're such a little bitch these days," Meg offhandedly remarked, ignoring his answering glower.

"Would you two stop?" Castiel muttered, looking irritated with both of them. He had personally witnessed many of the unspeakable exploits carried out by their host. Some things were still foggy, a mortal obstruction redacting somewhere in his mind, but what he did remember was nothing short of carcinogenic holocaust. _With the jawbone of an ass, I have slain a thousand men_. That was not literary flair or flowery exposition. It was brutal verbatim. They would do well to tread lightly.

Before Dean could switch his aggression to a new target, Meg cut him off. "After Cain killed Abel, he became a demon."

Dean looked at her, thinking he'd heard wrong as suspicion painted over his face. "What do you mean, _became_ a demon?"

Meg did not let him down lightly. "I mean he became the deadliest demon to walk the face of the earth. That includes yours truly, and other players like Lilith and Alistair. Cain killed thousands. The best at being the worst. Sort of admired him for that. But then he just… I don't know, disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead. Or hoped he was."

"Any of you keep bees?" Cain appeared unannounced at the room's entryway, startling them a bit. He held a tray of tea in his hands and now wore an unnervingly affable smile. "They're such noble creatures. Very relaxing."

When no one immediately replied and their host regarded them with narrowed eyes, Castiel spoke up. "I did, once."

Cain was intrigued as he set down his tray, taking a seat opposite them in the single chair. "And you stopped. Why?"

Castiel looked reluctant to answer that, and maybe a little like the answer troubled him to admit aloud. "Bees are, as you said… noble. Peaceful. I am not."

"Not anymore," Cain agreed at length, eyeing him studiously. "I won't dispute that." He sat back in his seat, reflective now. His cold eyes combed over his visitors, and then he directed his gaze to the right where a glass display case housed a small portion of his many hives, the bees therein working tirelessly. "They're dying, you know," he remarked dimly. "I think I may hold the last remaining few. Without bees, mankind will cease to exist. Won't be long, now." Cain took a moment, mulling silently over something indiscernible before he seemed to snap back into the room, looking at each of them in turn where they sat. "So…" There was an almost menacing edge to his voice now. "What are two Winchesters, a demon, and a fallen angel doing at my house?"

"You know who we are?" Dean surmised.

Cain looked vaguely insulted. "I'm retired. I'm not dead. What I don't know is why you're looking for me."

"Yes you do," Meg countered, the look in her eyes challenging him to deny it.

He said nothing for a long time, meeting her stare unwaveringly and with an intensity that set her on edge. "How did you find me?"

"We're looking for the weapon the archangels used to kill the Knights of Hell," Dean explained, drawing Cain's attention. "The First Blade."

"We need it to kill a Knight," Sam elaborated.

Dean's visage darkened, the atmosphere falling quiet and tense as he spoke. "Abaddon."

Cain considered the news with solemn deliberation, visibly registering the name. His thumb worked latently at the ring he wore on his left hand, the silver catching the light.

The tension was overwrought mainly with the notion that this parley could go south in so many different ways. If Cain refused to play ball, not only was this mission a calamitous failure, but all hope for stopping Abaddon would be quashed in one fell swoop. The sanctity of their entire campaign rested on the shoulders of the infamous Firstborn, who looked about as likely to help them as a Meg was to sprout wings and a halo.

"We get it, you're retired," she butt in. "We're not here to get between you and the demonic AARP."

That got her some looks.

"It's bad out there," Sam said, trying to appeal to the man in whatever way he could. "We're just looking to even the odds."

"I am aware what is happening out there," Cain replied quietly, unmoved. His eyes fell on inexplicably on Dean. "This is a ruthless world. One must be ruthless to cope with it."

"We _need_ the Blade," Dean bit out, his patience slipping. Three months, and that bitch was going to fry the planet for good. Three months, and his brother was dead. Three months without the weapon meant Abaddon fucking won and this was all for _nothing_. Dean couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_. No matter who he had to kill, they weren't leaving until he had that weapon gripped tight in his hand.

"_One last time_. How did you find me?"

"We didn't," Castiel answered. "A location spell we performed was for the Blade."

"Happy accident," Meg said sunnily, her expression tight.

Cain seemed to think the matter over. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

"No," Dean said immediately.

Cain turned to him, appearing oddly endeared by the move.

"There were demons tracking us," Meg put in, as though it were nothing. "Following me. Clarence here carved me up like a New Age turkey though, so we should have lost them." At Dean's scathing glare, she rolled her eyes. "He knows you're lying, jackass."

Surprising them all, the tone of their host took on a measure of adieu. "Well, it has been a pleasure having company. Especially you, Amara. Castiel. But once a century is enough for me." Cain stood, regarding them all with weary negligence. "You can let yourselves out."

As he walked away, Dean shot indignantly to his feet, storming after him. "Hey, listen, pal—I'm not leaving here without the Blade!"

Cain shook his head, turning to him with an almost fond smile. The bold, capricious, and quite unbridled hunter he'd heard so much about had not disappointed in the least. He was exactly what Cain had imagined. "You have quite a reputation, Dean. I see the part about you being brave rings true."

"Abaddon is the last Knight of Hell. She's responsible for this shitstorm we're living in. I kill her, maybe things get better, maybe they don't. But at least that bitch will be dead. And if you're out of the game, what the hell do you care if she dies?"

Cain aimed a nod over Dean's shoulder. "If your demon friend here were so inclined, she'd have told you that I _trained_ the Knights of Hell. I built that entire demonic order with my own hands, _Abaddon_ included." There was an onerous, emotional weight behind the confession that seemed unfounded in that moment, though it was infinitely palpable.

All eyes turned contemptuously on Meg. Castiel regarded her in a way that revealed his disappointment, and Meg just looked indignant. "Hey, you asked for backstory, I was giving it. Beekeeper here interrupted before I could get to the juicy parts."

"Well, here's something she doesn't know… it wasn't the archangels that slaughtered the Knights. It was _me_."

A quiet swept over the room as that revelation hung heavy in the air, each person falling quiet with the news. "Why did you turn on your own?" Sam asked, almost loathe to know.

"Why does anybody?" Cain replied vaguely. The opaque stronghold that was his piercing stare slid to Meg, the meaning there unclear and yet completely clear.

"My brother asked you a question."

Cain turned those sharp eyes back on Dean. "Once again, I admire your bravery. But, if you'll excuse me, I have errands to run in town." The two firstborns stood opposite each other, each unwavering, each aware they wore the same chains. That mutual burden was almost tangible in that moment it was so apparent. "Goodbye, Dean Winchester. Never return."

Before Dean could start threatening the deadliest monster they'd possibly ever faced, Castiel spoke up from behind them. "Who is this?"

He was holding up an ornate picture frame, and it held a photograph inside of a woman which was clearly antique. The inscription read _Colette_. Cain visibly reacted to the sight of her image, a deeply buried anguish resurfacing for the barest moment. Meg had drifted over to Castiel's side, looking over his shoulder at the picture.

"Same ring," she remarked of the smiling woman's left hand. "Looks like the Father of Murder got hitched. Congrats. Sorry we didn't bring a toaster oven."

The gutted expression Cain wore was barely restrained. "That belongs to me," he said calmly, his voice belying the conflict in his eyes. "Please return it to where you found it."

Castiel wordlessly obliged, exchanging a look with Meg and then the others. A flash of headlights suddenly filled the room, and every eye turned to the entryway of the house in confusion. Taking a moment to activate at the unfounded arrival of more strangers, the foursome gathered at the windows with grim suspicion.

There were three vehicles parked on the lawn, more pulling up the drive, and bodies began piling out, facing the house with an intent that was dangerously obvious.

"Don't suppose they're with you?" Dean muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Cain.

"No," the demon said, nonreactive.

"We don't want any trouble, Cain!" shouted a voice from outside the house. "We're just here for the Winchesters and that traitorous little bitch!"

Meg rolled her eyes. "These mouthbreathers need to get more creative with their pet names."

"They need to die," Castiel said darkly, the tense cut of his shoulders adding to his severe demeanor. He was cast in a dark silhouette as he stared into the light, picking out bodies, cataloguing how many they would each be responsible for and just how he planned to deal with his.

Sam began counting, the attempt to weigh the odds a seemingly pointless one. He shook his head. "I count…"

"Too fucking many," Dean growled, turning on Cain to face him head on. "Sack up, Firstborn. Are you gonna help us or not?"

Cain remained unimpressed. "You should barricade the doors," he coolly advised.

"Get ready for a fight," Meg presaged, watching twenty or so demons pile out of several vehicles and more creeping up on the property from the surrounding woods. Her eyes were void of all light, bottomless and battle-ready as she brought out her weapons.

"Good luck with that," Cain said, both sincere and yet not.

Dean was already in his face. "Excuse me?"

"You exposed my home. You exposed _me_."

"Boo-fucking-hoo!" the hunter retorted.

Cain shook his head, something like admiration making his mouth curl at the edges. "You truly have lived up to your reputation."

Dean looked as though his entire world were crashing down at his feet, the desperation in his voice and face clawing for reprieve—for what he knew he needed to leave here with. "I can't say you've lived up to yours."

"I'm retired."

Behind them, the others were already barricading the windows and doors, a vivid contrast to the momentous silence hanging between the two who stood in the center of the room. Fury and malice churned in one, fortitude and something almost like hope rising in the other. Just as Dean was about to turn away in disgust, Cain spoke low and quiet in the small shell of solitude they shared in the center of the chaos.

"You want the Blade, Dean? Prove to me you deserve it."

Before Dean could ask just what the hell that meant, the double doors separating the living room from the kitchen swung shut behind him, blockading the others.

The trio inside whirled to find themselves trapped—or rather to see Dean trapped with Cain. "What the hell!" Sam demanded. He and Castiel were already drawing weapons, and before they could break down the wooden and glass doors, Meg was laying hands on either of their arms, indicating they wait and see what would happen. "What is this?!"

"A job interview," she quipped without humor. "Cain wants to see his prize fighter in action."

Castiel's eyes flew to hers, a great weight sinking in his gut. "No," he murmured, realizing now. He looked back on the scene in the kitchen with mounting dread.

Dean ignored the protests coming from behind the doors. "What are you talking about?"

Cain spread his hands in a contemplative shrug. "Show me you haven't lost a step from the man I've heard so much about." The demon then snapped his fingers, and a backdoor swung open. This allowed several demons to pile into the house before the door slammed shut again behind them. They looked around in a manner that was almost comical, eyes falling on Cain with poorly concealed trepidation before he shook his head. "Don't mind me." He indicated Dean. "Enjoy yourselves."

There was a brief moment of pause as they all reacted to what was intended to unfold. Then, without further hesitation, Dean drew the demon knife from inside his jacket and exploded into action. He lunged at the first target, immediately slicing it across it's chest which spewed brimstone in the dying light. Recovering, the demon came at him like a bull out of the gate and they grappled across the kitchen. Dean had just gained leverage when it sent him sprawling over the table and at the feet of yet another. Dean rose up in a smooth motion, cutting off the attack with brutal ease. He twisted the demon's arm behind it's back, pivoting once and ducking another wild swing before stabbing the knife into its chest. Dean cast it carelessly aside, moving onto the next. Two demons surrounded him, one grabbing for each arm and hauling him up into the air and slamming him back down onto the table.

He took a few hits as they pinned him down, fighting their hold and lashing out with his leg. His boot connected hard, sending the possessed female careening back into the wall. Above him, Dean gave the other three savage punches, lurching back to his feet to then drive the bludgeon of his knee into the demon's face. Blood spurted over his jeans and he whirled, sensing the female as she recovered. She held his knife in her hand, still coated with blood. As she lunged, Dean seized a hand towel off the nearby counter, catching her hand with it and twisting to garrote her throat. Using the makeshift leach, he gathered momentum and hurled her across the room into the refrigerator and then into the buffet cabinet filled with chinaware. The plates shattered on impact, shards of porcelain raining loudly onto the tile as both the buffet and the demon tumbled in a heaping crash to the floor.

Whirling, Dean grabbed a hefty cooking pot off the top of the fridge and hurled it at the approaching demon's head. It connected with a dull clang, sending it staggering back. Dean delivered a powerful kick to its sternum, bone cracking under the force. He spun back to the female, trading hard blows and regaining his weapon. He gained the upper hand quickly, pinning her arm from behind, bringing the demon knife up into her ribs.

Behind the barricade of the French doors, Sam and Castiel watched anxiously as the last demon gripped Dean around the trunk and bulldozed him back into the fridge, nearly toppling it over. They fought with barbarous skill, tearing across the kitchen like two battering rams. The demon got in one or two good hits, then sent Dean skidding hard and fast across the floor until his back met with the cabinets there, knocking several doors loose.

With boiling umbrage, Dean climbed back to his feet, wearing a murderous glower. Again, they met in combat, exchanging brutal punches and harsh kicks. Everything in their path fell to ruin—cabinet doors torn off their hinges, picture frames crashing to the floor, glass shattering in a rain of sinister shards.

Behind them, Cain retrieved a beer from his off-kilter fridge.

With a powerful move, Dean heaved the demon back and pummeled it down onto the table, arcing the blade high to bring it slamming down into its throat with vicious finality.

As another black soul was extinguished in a burst of hellfire, the body lay spasming for a short time and Dean slowly looked up, meeting the eyes of his onlooker. Cain drank calmly from his beer, eyeing Dean contemplatively over the mouth of the glass in appraisal. He allowed the others back into the room with a brief flick of his fingers.

The three piled in at Dean's back, saying nothing although not knowing what they _would_ say even if they had any such inclination. This was beyond them, belonging to Dean alone.

He shoved the demon off the table and to the side, feeling a rankling sense of outrage. "What the fuck was this, some kind of test?"

Cain considered him, his demeanor more serious. All affability vanished in place of something else entirely. "I've felt connected to you right from the beginning. Kindred spirits, if you will. You and I… are very much alike."

Dean stared the demon down, shoulders squared menacingly, his breathing more calm as the adrenaline dissipated. "Right. Except I didn't _kill_ my _brother_."

Cain's eyes never strayed from Dean, a strange, solemn intrigue coating his quiet words. "You saved yours. Why?"

"Because you never give up on family," Dean practically growled. As though the very idea was foreign and despicable. "_Ever_."

Beside him, Sam's eyes went to his face. Stark, affected surprise colored his expression and at his brother's words, he quietly reeled. Was that hope he felt?

Cain tilted his head, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "Yet you no longer trust each other. I remember what that was like."

The reminder brought Sam crashing back down, but Dean shook his head. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, and I don't really care. Just give me the damn Blade."

"What you seek after so hungrily isn't here," Cain told him, a note of regret in his voice. He glanced at Castiel, to Meg, then back again at Dean. "Your spell brought you to the source of the Blade's power." He rose to his feet, coming around the side of the table, rolling up his sleeve. "Me."

There, inside his forearm, _vav_ was engraved into the skin—the sixth letter of the Hebrew alphabet and one of the letters in His name. The ultimate defiance. The branded flesh was red and abraded, even after thousands of years.

The group stared in communal horror at what they were seeing, overwhelmed to be in the presence of it. Even Meg looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

"That's the Mark of Cain," Sam murmured.

"From Lucifer himself." Cain ran a thumb over the raised flesh, frowning deeply at the feel of it. "The Mark and the Blade work together. Without the mark, the Blade is useless. It's just an old bone."

"Bone?" Dean echoed.

"A jawbone," Castiel elaborated, looking at his friend heavily before turning those eyes back on Cain. "From an animal. A jawbone he used to kill Abel." He remembered the younger brother's scream, remembered the angels looking on in abject shock at the unspeakable sight, none of them knowing what to do. Humans were supposed to be pure—free of malice, free of hatred. Yet one of them had slain his own kin before their very eyes.

"Because he was God's _favorite_," Dean surmised in a mordant tone. He felt a reflexive abhorrence to the creature before him at the reminder.

But Cain grew suddenly angry. Emotional, even. "Abel wasn't talking to _God_. He was talking to _Lucifer_," he spat, clearly reliving that very moment and all the more devastated because of it. His eyes turned again to Sam, the communication meaningful as much as it was painful. "You remember what it was like to stand in his presence. To look on that face. _Terrible_, and remarkable. It's an affliction I won't soon forget. Lucifer… he was going to make my brother into his _pet_," Cain said, turning back to Dean. The parallel stunned both brothers into silence. "I couldn't bear to watch him be corrupted, so I offered a deal. Abel's soul in Heaven for my soul in Hell. Lucifer accepted. As long as I was the one who sent Abel to Heaven." A long, drawn out quiet stretched between them. Cain averted his eyes, allowing his gaze to fall downcast against that particular memory. "So I killed him. Became a soldier of Hell. A Knight."

"And Daddy ordered you to make more," Meg filled in quietly.

Cain shook his head, slow and heated as he turned away from them. "My Knights and I… we did _horrible_ things. For centuries. Bringers of chaos and darkness…"

"Then you met Colette," Castiel filled in, the guesswork easy enough considering the timeline of when Cain dropped off the face of the earth.

The Firstborn was staring longingly at the picture sitting over the fireplace. "She knew who I was," he said softly, acknowledging that Castiel was correct. "She loved me unconditionally." Cain looked at the fallen angel then, at the small demon standing next to him. "She forgave me."

The words tugged at something inside of Meg, her features drawn in quiet absorption of the story. Though she said nothing, the sharp lines of her face seemed softer somehow, the cunning shape of her lips less aloof.

"She only asked for one thing."

"To stop," Sam softly surmised.

And so he had. He'd destroyed his own monster, laid down the Blade, turned on his own—all of it for love. Why else?

Cain looked at them, fresh anguish transforming his cold stare into something vulnerable and aching. "When the Knights found out, they took retribution. They _took_ Colette, so I picked the First Blade back up. It felt _so good_ to have it in my hands again and I _slaughtered_ the Knights of Hell."

"Not all of them," Dean said, frowning.

"No," Cain conceded quietly after a long time, looking as though he were reliving a nightmare. His eyes had glazed over, the arch of his dark brow drawing together in pensive inward torment. _You're better than all of this_, rang his wife's voice in his head, gentle like a breeze over thistle. "I buried her and I walked away."

"Well, I'm sorry," Dean said, meaning it. "Truly. But I have to stop Abaddon."

Cain said nothing. He merely turned away from the hunter and began to walk away.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch!" In seconds, Dean had him pinned against the wall, the demon knife bared in his face. "You may be done killing, but _I'm_ _not_!"

With chilling calm, Cain took Dean's arm in a firm hold and drew it forward in a swift motion so that the knife embedded deeply into his heart. There was no smoldering brimstone, no smell of sulfur, no flicker at all. Just as everyone was reacting to this with stunned surprise, Cain's eyes appeared to roll back, the haunting white void staring back at Dean with alarming calm. At the edges of his vision, tiny veins of black edged towards the center, ever-moving much like a demon's smoke. _I cannot be killed_, the display of power seemed to say. "You never give up on anything, do you?"

For a long time, killers mortal and immortal faced off in silent opposition. "_Never_," came Dean's ready reply. "Now where is it?"

"I've kept it hidden. Always in reach."

"_Bring it to me_."

Cain's eyes lost their demonic edge, the frosty stare returning. "Have you heard nothing I've said?"

"You mean your fucking _riddles_?" Dean snapped, losing patience. "I can't keep up with the shit you're spewing, man."

"Great," Meg muttered from the window. She stared out into the yard that was illuminated only by headlights and the moon as it sat high in the sky, watching the bodies dodge in and out through the shafts of light. "More friends just showed up to the party, and look, they've brought their pet chompers."

"Croats," Cas observed dourly from her side.

"_Dean_…" Sam began. The three of them were becoming anxious, wishing this would move along or that Cain would finally decide to lend a hand, because the odds were not looking good.

"The _Mark_, Dean," Cain elaborated sternly. "I can give it to you, if it's what you truly want."

The hunter shook his head, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"

"The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy."

Realization hit Dean hard. "You mean a killer, like you."

He knew the answer even before it was spoken. It was who he was, after all. What he was made for. The fury he felt inside, the desperation and the loathing, that empty feeling that spread out to consume him, unrelenting and demanding—the very things Cain had recognized in him from the moment they stood within another's presence.

"Yes," Cain answered with quiet intensity.

The word lanced through Dean. Killing was the only thing that beat it back. There was a calm that settled over him when the blade sunk deep, when he saw the light flicker and go out of their eyes. Always a meager victory, all those monsters dying at his hand. But it was something.

And lately, he wanted that something more and more.

The real reward was knowing some innocent would live another day, or some victim had gotten the only justice they were going to get. But even that didn't seem to do much for him anymore. Still, there was always the satisfaction in knowing those evil sons a bitches were dead because of him. Because he'd stood his ground, stared down evil and didn't blink, didn't hesitate. Just raised his blade and cut right through them.

Loud pounding carried from outside, reverberating across the house from each door. His friends were preparing for a fight, knowing it was going to be bad. Knowing that this was exactly what they'd expected in so many ways—impossible odds, fighting for survival, harboring the very real understanding that not all of them would be going home.

Dean looked away from the chaos, back at Cain, impassioned now. "Can I use it to kill that bitch?" he asked, not caring about anything beyond that. He was poison and he would take Cain's mantle. He would do the only thing he was good at.

"_Yes_."

Sam and Cas worked together to tip over the large bureau in front of the main entrance. On the other side of the house, Meg was doing the same before they backtracked and crossed paths again, weapons out. Her and Cas would be first into the melee, since neither of them could be infected. "Nice knowing you, feathers," the little demon said, throwing him a wild, bitter smile that was so full of longing it startled him. "See you on the other side."

Castiel was uncertain what he could say that encompassed their relationship and what she meant to him. When nothing came, Castiel merely nodded. "See you on the other side," he echoed.

Dean stared at the demon across from him with dawning understanding. "This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"Nature is made up of balances, Dean. Nothing will ever be so powerful as to live forever. Abaddon is a predator." Cain's eyes narrowed balefully, his voice pitched low and sinister. "But even predators can be preyed upon."

Ignoring the maddening din surrounding them, Dean shook his head. "Why didn't you kill her when you had the chance?"

"Because fate is tricky and it has a funny way of things. I think it was always going to be you." The Firstborn looked averse then, his following words revealing hesitation. "You have to know… with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great _cost_."

Dean was already yanking up his sleeve. "Spare me the warning label, you had me at _kill the bitch_."

Cain looked him dead in the eyes, marveling at this singular soul, musing that it was not unlike looking into a mirror. "Good luck, Dean. I mean that. Because you'll need it."

Fleetingly, Dean met Sam's eyes across the room. He thought of how he'd watched his brother to say yes to Lucifer. How he'd said no to Michael. Both choices being inherently right for the cause it was serving at the time. Certainty had been the marrow of his bones then as it was now, and so Dean didn't even think about saying yes to Cain.

"Do it."

Just held out his hand as the fratricide gripped it tightly with his own in a gesture of deep respect, words inadequate somehow. One by one, every muscle in Dean's body tensed with anticipation. Then, Cain transferred the chilling hold up the hunter's arm, and Dean felt power surge through him in a rushing torrent of burning agony.

Dean held on through the pain, allowing the searing brand to mark him for the killer he was. A dealer in death, more lethal than venom to those who trusted him. Everything erupted into a fiery red light behind his eyes, a deafening buzz pulsing in his ears that distorted all sounds. Snaking scarlet vines crawled up his skin, energy surging into him. Upon his forearm, the flesh raised in the familiar notorious shape, left raw and scalded in the aftermath.

Cain released him with a violent shudder and Dean sucked in a deep, gasping breath. His brother was already at his side, gripping his shoulders and to keep him from stumbling back. "Dean!"

Castiel had his angel blade in one hand, a machete in the other. He stared at the Mark with a sickened feeling, dread laying heavy on his shoulders. Beside him, Meg looked anxious and impatient to address their ambushers with violence.

Dean shook off the residual effects, his vision slowly returning to normal. "I'm fine. Now where the hell did you stash the damn Blade?"

Cain called the weapon forth, and he suddenly had the Blade gripped tightly in his hand.

Dean saw it and needed it. The Mark burned hot in reply, a painful longing to have the Blade in his hand surging to the surface. Dean stared at it in rapture, the pain escalating to the point where nothing else could be perceived.

Sam looked at the primitive old bone, a terrible sense of awestruck fear coursing through him. The Father of Murder held it as though presenting it on a pedestal to his brother, a treasured prize. Castiel may have no longer been an angel, but he could feel the Blade's evil resonating from across the room. This was the weapon responsible for the first murder. The first time brother killed brother.

This was Dean taking action. Seizing back control. Moving forward, into the fray.

He reached out and took up the Blade for his own.

Immediately, it was like two magnets bonding together. Two halves of a whole converging as one. Around them, the room gave a shuddering quake. The power of the Mark and its Blade pulsed through his veins, fueling his dormant anger to a crushing, unstoppable force. Dean's eyes fixed on the weapon in his hand, a look of intense awareness spreading across his face. His entire arm shook and he reflexively tightened his grip on the Blade as though it were a lifeline. He felt his entire being become one with the weapon, finally achieving its full potential—_his_ full potential. The feeling was exhilarating and Dean's skin was abuzz with the primal energy flowing through him. Every fiber he possessed exuded the raw, unadulterated power of a man born and bred and unafraid to kill.

Cain drew in close to him, his icy stare intense. "When you're alone with your demons, Dean Winchester, hope can't survive. The only thing that can live in the dark with you is your anger. Use it. Because that anger can be transmuted into a power which can move the whole world." Dean reeled at the words, at what had transpired in a few short hours. A brutal battle, three demons slain, and Cain confirmed he was worthy. "You will go and you will kill Abaddon. But make me a promise first. When I call you, and I _will_ call, you come find me. And use the Blade on me."

Dean's brow drew together at that, and he faintly shook his head. "Why?"

"For what I'm about to do. Take your brother's hand."

Dean automatically obeyed, feeling Sam grip him back tight. Cain reached out, laying a hand over Dean's shoulder, and then Castiel's. With a jarring rush, the three men were suddenly outside, standing at the outskirts of the property, out of the sight of the demons and Croats. As the brothers were regaining their footing, Castiel became panicked.

"Where is Meg?" he said aloud, looking wildly around them. Dean and Sam glanced in confusion, confirming that Meg was indeed no longer with them. Then Sam was lurching forward in alarm, grabbing at Castiel as the fallen angel began to tear back towards the house.

"No! Cas, no! Stop! Dean, help me!"

Both brothers took hold of each arm, hauling Castiel back as he fought against them.

"She's still inside!"

* * *

Meg felt an almost icy chill wash over her upon realizing she was now alone with the only demon she actually feared. Cain regarded her gravely, his penetrating stare intense in new ways. "Abaddon is after you. She wants you for her crusade."

"I kind of figured," she answered unevenly. She could practically feel her angel fighting to get to her, wherever he was. Meg tried not to show how much she was actually afraid, but Cain surprised her then.

"Stay with Castiel, no matter the cost. He can save you, Amara."

The words were said in quiet urgency, a fissure of sincerity running through them. Before she could formulate a response, Meg felt a staggering pull all around her and then she was standing beside Castiel and the Winchesters. They all started at her sudden appearance and then, snapping out of his daze, Castiel roughly shook off the hands keeping him anchored and gripped at Meg's shoulders, looking her over for injuries.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice angry and still tinged with panic. "Why did he keep you?"

"Told me to be good, eat my vitamins," Meg replied a little breathlessly, brushing him off to indicate that she was fine. "Don't steal from babies."

Castiel opened his mouth to protest her lack of an actual answer, but was interrupted by the sudden sound of screams that erupted from the house.

From the windows, a bright, scarlet flash burst through the panes. And then another, and another. More and more flashes appeared, and it reminded Dean of the power that surged outward when an angel smote a demon. The screams from the house intensified, the four observers realizing the same thing at once.

"They're all trapped in there," Sam murmured.

Meg shifted her weight, feeling another shudder crawl up her spine. Unconsciously, she listed closer to Castiel, who simply stared ahead with grim regard, having seen the display many times before. "With him."

Dean felt his rage crest and clarity wash over him. Beneath his sleeve, the Mark burned hot.

"Good," he said.

* * *

_been trading love with indifference and it suits me just fine  
I try to hold on but I'm calloused to the bone  
maybe that's why I feel alone  
I'm rusted and weathered, barely holding together  
covered with skin that peels and it just won't heal_

* * *

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"We'll assign a six man team to escort the survivors back to the camp. Myself and the remainder will continue out past mile marker sixty-three to convene with Camp Clearwater's team for supply exchange. Be sure to transfer additional canned goods to my vehicle—we'll get the medical supplies loaded into yours," Castiel was saying to Charlie.

She nodded, eyeing the crates with a mixture of relief and gratitude before setting that bright stare back on him. "You're a key, Cas."

"I'm not quite sure what—" She surprised him by throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you." Charlie gave him an extra squeeze and drew back, reaching up to pinch his cheek for good measure before hurrying along after the crates.

Castiel stared after her bemusedly, thinking that what he did was nothing spectacular, but pleased to see that the girl was smiling. She hadn't done that in a long time.

"And where would you have me, keymaster?" said a deep voice beside him and Castiel looked to see Ezekiel regarding him and the redheaded girl with amusement.

Castiel considered his elder brother in puzzlement at the inquiry. "You don't have to defer to me, Ezekiel. You're the stronger of the two of us."

Ezekiel chuckled, shaking his head as they fell in step together. "Stronger, perhaps. But you are still _Castiel_. I'll follow you, grace or not."

Castiel remembered a time spent fighting alongside his sibling in the Rebellion, and again in the newest war to tear Heaven apart—the war against Raphael. Ezekiel had proven himself time and again to be trustworthy, powerful, dedicated, and above all compassionate. When others had abandoned him, Ezekiel stayed true. Castiel recalled many battles fought with this brother, who had been one of his best lieutenants. Striking down demons and enemy angels, coming together as a single force against the bulwark of what fought to destroy them. Castiel's vessel was tall and well-built, but Ezekiel's was mightier still, and so he smothered their enemies under the sheer brute force he commanded where his younger brother moved with speed and agility, each gambit more cunning than the last. The twin arcs of holy steel catching the light in chaotic ways, sparks flying and blades ringing as they met again and again under Heaven's skies. A trenchcoat snapping against the wind like the beating of wings.

Ezekiel knew from the moment of Castiel's creation that he would follow this brother anywhere. _It is not only humans that are destined for great things, Castiel_, he'd told him once, as they both knelt in respite at the edge of Heaven. Even then, Castiel had needed convincing.

"No matter my intentions," he was saying now with a rueful frown, "no matter the path I take, I seem to ultimately fail. I'm not a leader, and I'm not sure I ever deserved to be."

Ezekiel chuckled deeply, shaking his head. "Ah, Castiel. So much to learn. _So_ much to learn." His dark stare peered on past the horizon, looking into things unknown. Eventually, he turned back to his brooding sibling and offered some advice. "It is the fear of becoming ordinary that inspires so many to be extraordinary. You fought against the mold. You _rejected_ the broken ways our superiors tried to force down on us. You refused to be faceless, and in doing so you granted that freedom to all of us. Don't forget that while you may have rebelled against Heaven, you still were rewarded. You've always been willing to follow our Father while fighting for His children." Ezekiel indicated the small group of their human crewmembers ahead. "You see what He sees in them. It's different. That doesn't make it a bad thing."

Castiel sighed deeply, smiling despite himself. "You know," he said. "I missed your counsel."

Ezekiel's dark features brightened into a broad grin. Laughing, he gripped a hand over his sibling's shoulder, jostling him merrily. "Be noble, little brother, for you are made of stars."

At his hip, Castiel's walkie crackled for attention and he brought it up to his face, already knowing who it was. "We're about eight miles out. Charlie has the medical supplies."

"_Nothing on my end but squatters and Croats_," came Meg's voice, sounding surly. "_Heading back to base_."

"Are you alright?"

"_I broke a nail. So I'm a little pissed about that_."

"I'm… sorry," Castiel managed, not quite sure how else to respond to that.

"_What about you, hotwings? How's that ass of yours_?"

Castiel's brow wrinkled. "My ass is fine."

"_And you'll be back when_?"

"I have the exchange with Clearwater. If all goes as planned, I should return by sundown."

"_Good. Tonight when I get my hands on you, Castiel, you're gonna think you're back in Heaven. First, I'm going to take these handcuffs_—"

He fumbled with the walkie, switching it off in a hurry as heat flushed up his neck and turned his cheeks a deep red. Ezekiel's baritone laughter revealed that the damage was already done, and Castiel felt a swell of embarrassment. He cleared his throat with some difficultly, wishing he could retreat into a hole somewhere, or that a meteor might drop on his head from outer space.

"She is volatile," his brother remarked, the smile he wore approving. "I like her."

* * *

_and I took you by the hand, and we stood tall  
remembered our own land, and what we lived for  
and now I cling to what I knew  
I saw exactly what was true  
but oh no more, that's why I hold  
that's why I hold with all I have, that's why I hold_

* * *

PRESENT, KANSAS

It was late in the evening when the jeep rumbled up the long path leading to Camp Chitaqua.

Before the gates were in view, Sam pulled off to the side of the road, putting the vehicle into park. Three questioning stares fell on him and he swiveled in his seat to look at Castiel and Meg. "Go on ahead. We'll catch up."

Dean looked at him from the passenger seat, snapping out of whatever remote isolation had befallen him for the past several hours.

Meg sighed theatrically. "Goody. We get to walk while Laverne and Shirley have some melodramatic bonding."

"Meg," Castiel muttered sidelong in reproach. He offered Sam a comradely nod through the rearview mirror, tugging the ornery demon out after him.

When the two of them were almost out of sight, Sam trained his eyes on his brother.

Dean had many looks. The intense, _middle-of-reasoning-through-a-case_ look. The sudden, inspired _I-know-what-did-it_ look. The wary, alert _something's-not-right_ look. Then there were a few Dean reserved just for him. The _far-too-excited-about-pushing-his-buttons_ look, which was usually coupled with an infuriatingly smug grin right as Sam was about to deck him. The blank _I-don't-understand-a-word-you-just-said_ look. And, of course, the _oh-so-help-me-Sammy_ glare—common to their arguments just as he cornered Dean with impeccable logic or pigheadedness.

All those looks Sam knew. But this one? He'd rarely seen it. Not nearly enough to identify clearly. Though, he'd seen shades of it… when Dean came back from the dead with a secret. When Dean crawled out of his own grave and refused to speak about Hell. When he'd torn a hole through reality itself and fought his way back out of Purgatory.

The silence was deafening and Sam recalled that Dean no longer listened to music. It had once been a favorite past time, but because of the bittersweet memories it raised, Dean avoided it now at all costs. He was frighteningly still beside him, calloused fingers tracing over the raised, raw flesh of his forearm, transfixed by it.

"Hey."

His brother looked up and Sam felt like he was already losing this battle. Getting Dean to talk nowadays was like pulling teeth. Knowing that Cain found Dean a worthy successor was off-putting, but seeing Dean take so readily to the challenge is what really put Sam on edge.

At Sam's voice, Dean rolled his sleeve down to cover the scar. "I'm here, Sam. Unwad the panties."

Sam sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "I don't even know what the hell to say, man."

"We knew this had to happen. I need the Blade to kill Abaddon. I need the Mark to use the Blade."

Sam shook his head. He could see the steadfast resolve that was always there, but past that he could also see the anger and the fear brimming just underneath the surface. "No, Dean. This isn't about the Mark or the Blade or anything Cain said. This is about you."

Dean bristled. "What about me?"

Sam turned to him, his expression one of utmost sincerity. "You put your own safety in peril because you think you don't matter."

_Not like Sammy_, Dean thought automatically. _Not like everyone else matters_.

"What the hell do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything, Dean. Just listen." Sam's eyes were forceful but earnest and Dean felt a camaraderie pass between them that he hadn't felt in a long time. "I know you're gonna do whatever you think you need to do to see this thing through. But I will _never_ be done trying to save you. You're my brother. Whether I'm so pissed at you I can't think straight and can't stand to even look at you, or when we're out there in the field watching each other's backs. I'm still here, right there with you. I'm not happy about this—not for a fucking second. But I'm with you."

Dean took this information in with quiet reverence, the words sinking in more deeply than Sam thought they would. He looked at his brother and finally saw the struggle there. Dean wasn't the only one hanging on by a thread. There were dark shadows under Sam's eyes—or where his eyes would have been if he'd still had them both. Dean's gaze slid to the patch of cloth over his brother's face, realizing that it was not a quick fix. Not something that Dean could simply clap him on the back for with a simple, _shake it off, Sammy!_ His brother had lost part of his sight and he was never getting it back. Sam had to live with that. He had to live with feeling incomplete, like he was only half the hunter he had been.

And if anyone could empathize with feeling worthless, it was Dean Winchester. For him, it was dealing with—or more accurately, _not_ dealing with—depression, apathy, and a craving for violence. After he had emerged from Hell, he'd been faced with a deep self-loathing bred from the knowledge that he had become a tormentor in that vile place, and that role had felt right for him. He had managed to repress that side of him, but upon receiving that brand into his skin… he'd started to feel those old feelings of violence more keenly. He hadn't verbalized it yet and had no intention of ever doing so, but it set him back a step. Seeing the same stirrings of self-hatred in his brother's eyes had those protective inklings rushing back to the surface with tidal force.

"You know, I've been a real prick lately." Sam chuckled derisively and Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I'm serious. It's your turn to listen, alright? Look at me." When he was sure he had his brother's full attention, he spoke the words they each had been dreading to address, ever since Pennsylvania. "Lucifer is not going to see the light of day. Ever again. Do you understand me? He isn't going to win this time either, and I ain't gonna let him touch one freakishly long hair on that Cro-Magnon head, got it?"

Sam laughed at his brother's idiocy, but the meaning behind it inspired something powerful inside him. Relief, gratitude, liberation—and something that hadn't been there in a long time. _Trust_.

He used to think that if anyone else had been made to endure everything his brother had been through, they would have emotionally shut off a long time ago. Wouldn't care about themselves at all, and especially not about anyone else. Dean was shut off in so many ways, but when poor treatment caused someone to believe that they were worth less because of it, he felt it too. For awhile, Sam thought his brother had lost that empathy completely. But perhaps there was hope left for him, after all.

Unbidden, he held up their father's journal between them, unspoken words exchanged through the gesture. Not the journal they had known all their lives, but the relic they had only recently found. The journal that contained John Winchester's thoughts and findings on the First Blade and the Mark that controlled it. "You're gonna need this."

_Maybe Sam is right_, Dean thought. Maybe he could be saved. He ran his fingers over the leather binding of the journal, a hundred new secrets waiting there to be uncovered. _All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing_, said someone once. Well… no matter the strength of his character, Dean wasn't built to do nothing.

Beneath his sleeve, the Mark burned idly, waiting to be put to use. Reminding him of its purpose. Inside his jacket, the Blade called out for blood. The travails ahead would devastate them, Dean was sure. Because as much as he wanted to believe Sam, as much as he wanted to hope, there was no easy fix to anything.

_A cost_, Cain had said.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the impossible would be done. The last Knight of Hell gone. The world a little safer.

Dean would do that.

He had the Mark. He had the Blade. The power and the purpose.

Abaddon's days were numbered.

* * *

_you were running out of time  
but oh your city lies in dust, my friend  
choking on the dirt and sand  
your molten bodies blanket of cinders  
caught in the throes_

* * *

"Well, we're alive," Meg remarked as their boots crunched in the dirt.

"I'm surprised," Castiel admitted, a sense of cautious relief filling him.

Meg, however, scoffed. "You know that Mark could easily be the death of us as much as Abaddon."

His mouth pressed into a grim line, sharing that sentiment all too keenly. "Yes, I know."

"So then what's the plan, Stan?"

Castiel's brow wrinkled and he looked at her closely as they walked. His expression said he _knew_ there was something he wasn't getting, but his lips spoke anyways, despite it. "…My name is not Stan." Predictably, Meg shook her head and sighed. She stopped and stared at him critically. "I assume that's an idiom of some sort that's just going over my head?"

"Wordplay. Rhyming names with a portion of a sentence."

He regarded her archly, a little smug even. "You should rhyme with my actual name instead of a made up one."

Meg raised a single dark eyebrow at the challenge. "You're a pain in my ass, Cas."

He actually smirked at that, the expression making him look roguish and appealing in all new ways. Meg stared at him, something changing in her expression like a dusky shroud being cast over her eyes. Her breathing hitched, chest heaving strangely, and before he could ask what was wrong, she was advancing towards him. "_God, you're impossible_," she ground out, fingers gripping tightly into his collar and jerking him down into a kiss.

Castiel's back struck a nearby tree, and he emitted a careless sound, reacting instantly. One hand tangled in her hair and the other pulled her flush against him, reveling in the feel of her movement and touch. Needing it, craving it. He'd expected to die. Had gone into this mission thinking it would be his last—_everyone's_ last. Yet through some baffling twist of fate, they were all still here. She was still here.

The moment when he'd been sure Meg was trapped in that house with Cain, he'd lost it. Every bone, every muscle of his body had instantly propelled him back towards the fire, needing to either drag her out of it or go up in flames beside her. Their kiss deepened, her aching moan against his mouth nearly his undoing. Having her alive and inciting in his arms—wholly and incontestably_ Meg_—drove him mad with relief and longing. He made a desperate sound, extricating himself through sheer force of will, despite her noisy protest. "What did he say to you?"

Meg deflated at the breathless inquiry, though she was still practically glued to him despite her disapproval of it. "Are you competing for best mood killer?"

His hand slid under her jaw, eyes searching her face. "If you're in danger, I want to know."

She rolled her eyes at that, wishing he would go back to coaxing those little noises out of her. "I'm not in danger."

"You're always in danger," he argued, getting restless. "We both are."

Relenting, Meg exhaled noisily. "He said Abaddon was after me. Nothing we didn't already know."

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean, _is that all_?" Meg looked indignant, her voice coming out snide and sharp.

"I didn't mean that like it sounded," he said, nose brushing against hers as his gaze momentarily retreated. Meg seemed satisfied by that, her anger dissipating some.

The gentle way he was touching her now had her wondering what happened to the rough, needy manhandling he'd displayed moments ago. Now he was looking at her so closely and so intently that it was almost like he was looking right into her true face.

"You mean Lucifer." At his meager look of guilt, she sighed. "No, Castiel. Cain didn't tell me anything about him."

It was no secret to himself that Castiel felt those treacherous stirrings of doubt. Because there had been a time when Lucifer was Meg's most ardent cause. He trusted her implicitly, but since Pennsylvania, the dark notions would not leave him be. He felt disloyal and wretched because of it, the shame eating away at him. The cautionary voice in his head had not let up over the past several days, and Castiel hated himself for it. That voice reminded him of a ring of fire, of the look in her eyes as she taunted him from the edge of it. The devotion she'd displayed towards her creed, towards her master. Her creator.

"I'm not jumping ships, Grumpy. You can put away the wet blanket." He looked so completely bewildered by that and she couldn't help but laugh.

Instead of a reply, he simply lowered his mouth back over hers, needing her to understand how difficult it was lately for him to trust anyone. That he was sorry, even if he couldn't seem to get the words out. It was, in part, a reassurance to himself as well. A reminder that loyalties could change for the better, that they _had_ changed. That she was as much his as he was hers.

"You never answered my question," Meg muttered against his lips in a honeyed voice, her hands sliding up his chest. His scruff prickled deliciously at her skin, rasping like sandpaper, and she needed more of it. Fingers curled into his shirt and tugged.

It took Castiel a moment to respond, since she was so keen to distract him. "You asked me a question?"

"Plans?" she repeated, her teeth grazing his bottom lip.

Castiel shook his head. "No. I'm yours."

"Really? Could have sworn Tabitha wanted you to translate those Enochian poems for her if you didn't end up as some Croat's chewtoy."

"She asked me, yes."

"I bet she did," Meg retorted sourly, eyes glinting. She knew what _Tabitha_ was interested in as far as Castiel was concerned and it sure as hell wasn't translating poems.

He uttered a faint growl, his lips reassuring at hers, hands cinched tightly over her hips. "Retract your claws. I told her I had no desire to 'make the earth move' with her. I'm _yours_."

Meg dug her nails in a little deeper just to spite him, hands sliding under his jacket to lock around his waist. "Snooty bitch doesn't understand the concept of private property." His disparaging tone made her irritable. She knew she was possessive as a petulant toddler with their favorite toy, but damn it, she was fucking tired of things trying to steal him away from her. _Mine_, she added silently, for good measure.

Castiel's lips curled against hers before he drew back, mirth shining in his eyes at her streak of jealousy. The look he gave her was pure affection tinged with mild amusement. "You're more than enough for me."

Meg wanted to roll her eyes at him looking so pleased, like he were actually puffing his feathers. Her brow quirked at him dryly. "Was that a compliment or a complaint?"

He merely chuckled, and the sight of him dirty and battle-worn like that did things to her. Somehow, he always managed to come out alive and the knowledge was as comforting as it was bizarre. Briefly, Meg wondered that when his time was eventually up if Castiel wouldn't just stare defiantly in the face of death and refuse to die.

"Sam and Dean will be along soon," he said. "We should go."

Despite his light spirits, his head had begun its merciless pounding, announcing to him that it was time for another dose of relief. It was worse than usual—almost incessant, the ringing in his head, and he couldn't figure why.

"I hope you know I'm going to jump you the second we're home."

_Home. _

The thought was pleasant, and a stark relief against the hell they'd just been put through. It tempered the raging fire in his skull, dulling it to a distant ache.

But Castiel had stopped in his tracks and Meg crashed gracelessly into him. There was a barbed comment on the tip of her tongue, but it faded from thought when she caught sight of what had caused him to skid to a halt.

Her gaze was drawn upwards. Confused suspicion colored her voice. "Is it _snowing_?"

All around them, tiny gray flakes drifted down as they stood before the gate of the camp. It wasn't cold at all—despite that it was evening, there were still remnants of that familiar, oppressive heat that followed them day to day. There was an almost sinister quiet that hung in the air that only intensified when no one immediately opened the gate to allow them entry. Castiel regarded the falling flakes with a sort of disquieted apprehension, a hollow pit beginning to form in his gut.

"It's not snow. It's ash."

Meg's gaze slid to him, a little startled.

"Something's wrong," he said, feeling the first stirrings of real panic begin to seep their way into him. "Help me open the gate."

Without questioning him, Meg lent her strength into the undertaking and they worked together to slide the two sides apart. The reinforced metal was as heavy as it was thick. She did her best to avoid the bands of iron that ran across it in stacked lines, and soon they'd pried it open just enough so that she could slip her arm through towards the chain lock on the other side.

Fingers straining, she bit out one curse after another as it remained just out of reach. Castiel grimaced against the slight ringing that had started up again in his head, growing louder as if in distress. The signal was weak and he couldn't discern it, couldn't focus, and it had him on edge to the point where it felt like his worry was a living thing growing inside him.

Meg, though, had stopped entirely. Her eyes were ebony pits, and she stood frozen in silence as she listened to something he couldn't hear. He was just about to voice the questions running through his head when she spoke. "Cas, open that fucking gate."

Hearing the banked urgency there and feeling it catapult inside himself, Castiel pressed a hand across her shoulders, drawing her back without hesitation. He pulled his sidearm from its holster and fired two shots into the slot, breaking the chain. As one they each gripped a side, adrenaline lending added strength to the imperative sense of dread that fueled them.

The sight that greeted them on the other side was horrific beyond words.

"_No_…"

Feeling his heart pound desperately against his ribs, Castiel's mind reeled in shock, a sensation like he'd been doused in ice water spreading like panic throughout his body. He stood, staggered by the devastation that lay before them. The two lovers regarded the smoldering fires and strewn bodies in abject shock, and Castiel's throat clogged with fear and pain. He tried to draw breath, but his lungs seemed to constrict as if his body was frozen in denial.

A majority of the cabins were destroyed, either shredded into like kindling or still emitting weak flame that licked forlornly at the sky. He doubted any of them were salvageable, but that was the least of his concern. With each step he took, dread lay heavier and heavier upon him, and with a sickened feeling churning inside him, Castiel had to ease around the bodies. His eyebrows screwed up together, his mouth parted open in mute horror as he scanned their faces for any signs of life. He saw none.

A sudden sound to his left snagged his attention and Castiel's gaze darted to see a small huddle of people working to splint a broken leg. Something like agonized relief tore through him, despite that he knew how short-lived it would be.

"Help who you can," he told his companion faintly. Castiel barely even recognized his own voice.

Meg was gone from his side an instant later, for once obedient.

* * *

_in the darkness before the dawn  
in the swelling of this storm  
running around and with apologies  
and hope is gone  
leave a light, a light on_

* * *

"Oh my God," Sam despaired, his lungs emptying of air as emotion and smoke choked him. He felt a sharp stab of pain burrow deeply into his chest, a desperate need to reach out and help assaulting him as he took in the sight of their fallen camp members. The wind gusted softly around them through the mangled trees and broken cabins, and the burning question as to what the _hell_ had happened repeated over and over again in his mind.

Dean had already snagged a passing survivor and was barking orders. "I want you to find whatever able bodied crewmember is left and get them searching for survivors. We're gonna set up the injured in whatever's left of the mess hall. Whoever doesn't know how to hold a gun, get them on med duty ASAP. Take a three man team and put out these fucking fires. Sam and I will take whoever's left for reconnaissance and perimeter sweeps until we figure out what the fuck did this. You got it?"

Donovan didn't disappoint. "Yes, sir," he replied, nodding quickly as they moved. His arm was clearly broken and there was blood on his face, but he'd cinched it to his chest haphazardly and readied himself for action.

"Can you hold a gun like that?"

"If you need me to, sir," Donovan answered readily.

Dean gave him a curt nod. "Get going."

Sam turned to him, their pace increasing as they tore across the camp. "How the fuck could this have happened, Dean?"

But Dean had skidded to a halt, eyes locked on a sight past his shoulder. All militant resolve deserted him in an instant, his expression gutted.

"Dean?" Sam took a step forward, panicked at the look he saw there.

"Move. _Move!_" shouted Dean, already shoving past his brother. His legs swallowed ground quickly towards the body he recognized, boots pounding against the earth as fast as his heart slammed against his ribs. "Risa!" Dean was at her side, knees colliding with the ground hard and weapon falling away as he frantically pressed his hands to the bloody wounds even though it was far too late. "Shit, _shit!_ Oh, fuck." Dean hauled her limp form tightly into his arms, shaking her frantically. "No, no,_ no_. Rees, sweetheart, come on…"

Her own weapon was still gripped in her lifeless hands, and there were several other dead civilians scattered around her—but, damn it, Dean didn't give a shit about them. His breath rasped raggedly from between his lips, murderous anguish rising in him like bile at her lack of reply. His stomach churned, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders that suddenly heaved through him. Dean bowed over her, shouting obscenities and pleas into her dark hair until the only thing left in him was pain. His lungs suffocated instead of benefitted as his body mourned without him. Frantic desperation and gutting sorrow clawed at his skin beneath his ribs, thundering inside his chest. The Mark burned hot on his arm, angry tears burning hot in his eyes, desperate to expel that misery, desperate for a target to unleash it on.

Sam barreled up onto the scene moments later, feeling like he'd just taken a punch to the gut. He dropped down next to his brother, calling his name, but Dean no longer made any sound and had gone utterly still. Risa was wrapped up in his arms, her olive skin now ashen even in the waning light. He knelt with her, frozen in place, reality not yet finding him.

"_Dean_…" Sam tried again. He gripped at his brother's shoulders tightly, conveying mutual grief and misery in that single moment. Dean's only reaction was to stare silently down at the body in his arms. "Dean, we've got people who need you right now. Come on, man. _I'm sorry_, I'm so sorry, but you've gotta pull it together. We need…" he trailed off in barely contained shock, pulse quickening as his gaze fell upon something that shook him to the core. "Oh God…"

Through the desolating fog, Dean felt his brother's hold on him disappear and then Sam was gone.

He forced his features into a stoic, unfeeling mask that revealed something slowly breaking inside. His jaw clenched tightly, set in determined wrath, and he tried not to feel the burning in his vision or beneath his sleeve, or the way his throat closed over every breath he tried to take. Guilt and hatred consumed him, became him.

Steeling himself, Dean surrendered to that darkness. He no longer heard the screams around him, didn't see the racing bodies that wreathed his back in a raging eddy of turmoil. His hands merely curled into fists at his sides, face twisting into a thundercloud of ruin.

The image of retribution was all he could see.

* * *

_millions are lost from home  
in the swelling, swelling on  
running round and with a thunder  
to bleed from thorns  
leave a light, a light on_

* * *

As Castiel moved and the bodies increased in number, he started to notice that many of them bore the searing imprint of wings at their backs. The smell of burnt ozone was overwhelming, choking. All around him charred feathers drifted across his path, and Castiel began to recognize faces of his kin, a wrecked sound spilling past his lips at the realization. He saw others too that he didn't recognize, a confused dismay eating at him as he began to frantically search.

_Abaddon_, he thought automatically, helplessly—the name an unspoken question hanging over his head, despite that he knew the postulation to be wrong.

A tiny scream pierced the air, seizing his attention. Heart in his throat, Castiel followed the cries, his legs swallowing ground quickly. He was near the mess hall now, sick to his stomach because this was where the children often gathered. _Please, please, no_…

Relief consumed him to see no small bodies mixed in with their dead, but it was short-lived because what he saw next left him stunned and terrified. There, just outside the doors, was his sister Hael lying motionless on the ground. Castiel's expression twisted in shocked grief, devastation lancing through him. The cries belonged to Aubrey, and the child was draped over the unmoving angel as she wept inconsolably without reprieve.

Overtaken with horror, Castiel rushed over to them, his heart in his throat as he called out to her. "Aubrey?"

"_Esezomi_," she sobbed, fingers gripping tightly into Hael's clothing for dear life. Her eyes were fused shut, tears streaming down her tiny cheeks. "_Esezomi_!"

"_Aubrey_, are you hurt?" Castiel dropped down beside them both, fumbling with who to tend to first and receiving no reply. Aubrey had blood all down the front of her sundress, though he sent up a reflexive prayer of thankfulness that it didn't appear to be her own. Hael had an awful wound torn into her side that was frighteningly severe and her blood coated most of the ground beneath her as well as her clothing. He took gentle hold of his sister, eyes raking over her frantically as he forced down the painful lump that tried to claw its way up his throat at the gutwrenching sight.

"Hael!" Castiel called her name with increasing panic and nauseating dread, Aubrey's devastated cries unrelenting beside him. His gaze fell to the wound, a spark of hope igniting at the sight of the weak tendrils of light that still transuded from the lesion rent into her. Her skin was pale and drawn and she was breathing in and out slowly, shallowly. "Please, sister," he murmured, pressing a hand over the wound to stem the flow of blood and dwindling grace. Light slipped through his fingers and at the pressure, Hael uttered a small, keening sound. Her lids cracked open, glassy eyes staring back at him in obvious suffering.

Hael looked scared. "_Esiasch_," she whimpered. She inhaled sharply, body heaving. "Aubrey, _please_, Aubrey is…"

Castiel thought he felt something shatter inside him as he cradled her slight body against himself, rushing to set her at ease. "Aubrey is here, she's safe. Don't be afraid. Hael!" Castiel looked down at her in silent agony. His sister was already losing consciousness again, trembling and drawing in pained, reedy breaths. His chest tightened miserably. "Hael…" he beseeched, holding her head up and gripping her hand tightly with his own. _Lie to her_, he thought. "It's going to be alright. Hold on, sister, please. Please, hold on." He whispered empty reassurances to her, stricken to the point of near-tears, so engulfed in grief that he could barely function. His heart raced, his veins burning with a feeling of despairing hope because she could live. She might live. _Please live_.

Perhaps he was even lying to himself.

"She alright?" a voice sounded suddenly from beside him, and Castiel's head jerked around to see Dean crouching next to him.

Castiel's voice was wavering. "Still alive. Barely."

The hunter's face was haggard and withdrawn, his red-rimmed eyes utterly devoid of anything warm. As he spoke the words were terse, everything about his demeanor completely detached. Something had happened. Something that made his friend almost unrecognizable to him now.

As Aubrey continued to wail softly, Dean took over. "Cas, get her out of here. I've got this."

Castiel activated, gingerly handing over his sister and then reaching out to draw Aubrey into his arms and away from Hael's body. She fought him briefly, refusing at first to be torn away from her dearest friend. Castiel gently hushed her, speaking in rushed Enochian tones in an effort to calm her.

"_Etharsi, azian_," he murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. He repeated the phrase, raising his voice above hers to be heard.

"Hael, _Hael_," she cried. "My Hael..."

"Shh, Aubrey, I know. _Ol om_." His heart went out to her, wishing he had the power to erase her pain and grief as he would have been able to before. Castiel spoke more soothing words and reassurances into her hair, holding her close as she clung to him now. Her cries had grown softer, terrified and mournful, and he couldn't fathom what new horrors she'd witnessed today. Castiel closed his eyes, lamenting deeply over the loss with her. Aubrey keened, curling into a ball against him. "_Eophan. Ese gahalana, od ese salb hom. Ol isro, ol isro_. We'll look after her, I promise you."

"CAS!"

He recognized Sam's voice, the fraught panic and desperation of it startling him. It pleaded for him, and Castiel looked up, torn once more in two directions because he was loathe to abandon Aubrey in such a state. Meg appeared beside him then, seemingly in answer to his need, and there was somberness in her eyes and blood on her jacket from tending to other wounded. "I've got her, Cas."

Her expression alone told him she knew what awaited him and Castiel felt another sick wave of dread wash over him as he rose to answer his friend's call. He had to pass through the swarm of crying children, glancing back once over his shoulder to Meg as she lifted Aubrey into her arms, at Dean as he collected Hael's light frame and began to carry her towards the mess hall.

When Castiel found Sam, the sight that greeted him may as well have been an angel blade sliding into his heart. What he saw paralyzed him, all fortitude finally abandoning him in a rushing torrent that left him clean of all strength.

Ezekiel was not yet dead, but he would be soon.

In an ironic twist of fate, his brother was slouched against a cabin wall, much like when he had first found him dying beyond the borderlands. Ezekiel had clearly been in a brutal fight, his vessel damaged in ways that any angel would struggle with to heal. But it was the handle of the angelic blade protruding from his ribs that made Castiel realize he would not be saving his brother this time.

Numbly, he approached the two of them, seeing the way Sam was losing it and rushing to do what he could despite having no clue what that was. The younger Winchester called to the angel, his tone frayed and beseeching, and Ezekiel assuaged him with calm, fading assurances. Dark eyes weakly caught Castiel's approach, a deep sadness there as he knelt down in the grass next to them.

"Cas, what do we do?" demanded Sam in a higher voice, his grief making the sound of it almost unrecognizable.

"I am to die," Ezekiel said quietly, his tone indicating that he had already accepted his poor fortune. He was clearly in a great amount of pain, his broad chest stuttering as he tried to draw breath. The bright spear of grace that wept from his wound was not beautiful at all, but a mocking reminder that it would not be long.

"I know," replied Castiel, looking at the treachery with an empty feeling.

"Cas, you have to help him!" Sam uttered in a begging voice, not understanding why his friend was doing nothing. "Fucking _do_ something!"

Castiel shook his head, swallowing thickly. "If we remove the blade, he will die. If we do not, he will die anyway."

Sam's reaction to that was devastating, his eyes going back to the angel in denial.

Ezekiel's drifting gaze was rueful and contrite. "I am sorry, Castiel. I had… had to protect them. The _children_… I couldn't let them come to harm. Are they safe?" He knew that he was needed here. That so many were counting on him. He was powerful and cunning, if he had only kept his focus on the battle and destroying the threat, he would not have let his guard down. But that call in him to protect had been too strong. He had heard their frightened cries and went to them without hesitation, defending them instead of his own flank. In the end, he had simply not been able to stop being a guardian. Ezekiel was willing to die, so that others would not have to.

"You did the right thing, brother," Castiel told him, crestfallen. "They're safe. Thank you."

Relief was prevalent in Ezekiel's eyes, and some of that tension in his shoulders eased. "And Hael?"

"She will live," Castiel assured him. The words lodged in his throat, and it took everything in him to remember how to breathe. Beside him, Sam was holding the angel upright, looking on him with deep remorse, feeling completely powerless and alone. "Ezekiel…" Castiel began, gripping his shoulder gently in deference. "Who is responsible for this?"

"The anarchist," his brother uttered, managing a look of true repulsion.

Castiel's countenance darkened. "Malachi."

_There are more factions_, Bartholomew had warned him. _Others you have to fear than just me_.

"He followed me… here," Ezekiel despaired, shaking his head. His fault. "He came for me. This… this is because of _me_."

"No, Ezekiel." Castiel's face fell still, blue eyes drowning in sorrow. He stared at his older brother helplessly, a barrage of guilt brimming at the surface inside him with stunning finality. No, this was not Ezekiel's fault at all.

The angel had turned dark eyes on Sam, an unerring warmth there. He regarded the human with loyalty, with utter pride. "Sam, listen to me…"

"Zeke, don't you dare start this goodbye shit—"

"You will find Gadreel."

"I need you to _teach me_," Sam insisted, his hazel eyes imploring. "I'm not strong enough yet. We _need_ you—"

Ezekiel regarded him as though he so badly wished he could grant this human's wish. He weakly slid up a hand to lay it over the hunter's heart. "It's in you, Sam. You must do this. I said I have faith in you, and I do, boy. I'm sorry I won't be there to help you. To be your friend. I'm so very sorry." Ezekiel wore an expression of utter defeat, a deep sorrow filling him at the thought that he was letting Sam Winchester down. He could feel his life slowly trickling away, could feel the cold starting to steal over him. The fiery mass of pain at his side was destroying him from the inside out, slowly and agonizingly. He did not have the time left that either of them needed so desperately now.

Castiel felt a vice close around his heart as his older brother met his eyes. "I will do it," he said quietly of the unspoken request.

Reaching out, he tightly took hold of the blade's handle in his shaking grip. Ezekiel regarded him gratefully, the _thank you_ he spoke aloud sounding calm and resolute.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked in a broken voice from beside him, dreading to know and yet realizing the answer.

"There's no reason for him to suffer needlessly," Castiel replied at length. His throat felt tight, and his eyes and face became hot. His vision swam as he met his brother's eyes for the final time, blurring at the edges. His breathing hitched at the ghost of a smile he saw there.

Before he could do the unthinkable, Ezekiel put his hand over his, briefly stalling him. "You know Metatron's weakness, Castiel."

His lips parted somewhat in surprise, but no protest followed. After the Fall, he had spent months trying to reach the Scribe—shouting at the sky, threatening, begging, cajoling. Nothing had worked. If there was a secret knowledge in his arsenal, he would have surely used it by now. But the way Ezekiel was looking at him said otherwise. Heartache gripped him.

"You always have."

With an imperceptible nod, Ezekiel was ready.

Castiel's expression changed, a struggling resoluteness filling him. Setting his jaw against the way it shook, he gripped the handle of the blade tighter and twisted hard. Light and grace exploded outwards in a stunning display, bathing them both in holy radiance. Its loud, piercing blast shook the camp, the light washing out everything else but for the feel of the weapon in his hand.

Ezekiel went quickly and peacefully, but Castiel felt neither of those things.

When it was over, Castiel stared stonily, inconsolably, at his fingers still wrapped around the lustrous steel. The light faded to a dim flicker until it was gone completely, and he slowly removed the blade. In his own chest there was a fierce determination forming that he wasn't sure what to do with. He didn't know why it was there or where it belonged, only that it was slowly eating away at him. He sat still and otherwise unmoving as a statue, unable to do little else but take in the deafening silence around him.

Castiel stared again at the blade as though he'd never seen it before, the blood on his hands stark and condemning as he fell victim at last to the indescribable grief that tore into him, leaving him gutted and raw. There was an emptiness he hadn't felt in a long time, back at the forefront of his mind. He sat in a daze, unaware of the minutes ticking by until he turned his head to see Sam looking at him hopelessly.

Castiel dropped the blade and it landed in the grass with a dull thud, echoing in accusation.

* * *

_another day in this carnival of souls  
the memories of shadows, ink on the page  
and I can't seem to find my way home  
your heaven's trying everything to keep me out_

* * *

It was hours later that Castiel found himself on his knees in the dirt, face buried in his hands, fingers knotting in his hair as his dead siblings surrounded him. Muriel, Azrael, Theo, Camael, Amesha, Jophiel, Temeluchus… all dead.

There was pain he couldn't account for. Pain surrounding him, pain consuming him, and it just _hurt_ so fucking much. He thought about Ezekiel, he thought about Hael. How he'd heaved several deep, impassioned breaths as he clutched the small body of his injured sister to himself protectively and felt how close she was to fading away forever.

How, incensed, he'd tipped his head back and looked up at the sky in deep accusation.

Somehow, he'd ended up back in his cabin because he was staring at the walls, feeling confined, feeling trapped, feeling as though the floor were dropping out from under him. Fury and pain coursed through him white-hot, roaring in his head, making it hard for him to breathe, hard for him to think. His blood seemed too hot, his skin too tight, and his head was whirling as his thoughts spun round and round, out of control. As his fists clenched, he could feel his body starting to shake with rage. His eyes slammed shut as he pulled in on himself. Anger—at himself, at Malachi, at Ezekiel for dying, at Metatron, at the world—rose up to choke him.

Castiel lashed out, seizing the lamp on the table next to him and hurling it to the floor, watching with distant satisfaction as the tattered shade snapped off and the bulb burst into a hundred pieces. He bent and swept his arm over the end table beside him, sending weapons and ammo and a picture of he and Hael spinning through the air. Glass crashed and shattered, metal sang as it bounced off the wall and left a pockmarked scar, but it still wasn't enough. He grabbed the bottle of sangria Meg had found and hurled it against the opposite wall and, with a crack like a gunshot breaking the brief silence, the glass exploded, shards of crystal spraying outwards in a fan of sharp rain. The liquid trickled down the surface like streaks of blood to puddle on the naked hardwood below. They'd been planning to share it when they got back as a celebration of making it out alive. Castiel could barely stand to look at it now. He shoved over the dresser and the bookshelf, wood splitting against the floor. His fists pounded angry dents into the wall beside him, his mind barely registering the pain and focusing only on the need to break and destroy everything he could.

He stood there in the center of the room, at the eye of his destruction, breathing hard and feeling utterly and completely alone. Painfully aware of the growing emptiness in his chest.

As fast as the temper had surged through him like a swift moving storm, it ebbed away, leaving him drained and exhausted. The anger started to fade, defeat starting to seep into every corner of his body. Castiel stared dazedly down at his feet, as though the worn leather might offer him the answers he so desperately needed now. All energy seemed to bleed out of him and, knees buckling, he sank down, his back against the wall in the corner of the room. He drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head between them, unable to look at what he'd done and needing—just for a moment—to dwell in darkness.

That was where Meg found him several minutes later. Quietly, she stepped over the wrecked furniture and broken glass, making her way to him. He didn't react when she knelt in front of him, body folding almost soundlessly, not until she laid a hand over his arm. Castiel raised his head, looking back at her with sad eyes. They were cloudy with checked despair, reflecting the heaviness of his spirit, and he appeared to nearly bow in on himself at the sight of her. He didn't need to ask to know that the death toll was even more than what he'd believed before. Meg's expression was a rare moue of sympathy, her own shoulders slumping as she saw a man who had lost more than he had any right to, who had saved and guarded and sacrificed until he was bled dry and then got back up to do it all over again. She looked at him with a hesitant expression, not sure what she could possibly do for him, not sure how to exorcise that unbridled sorrow he wore so clearly and so defeatedly. She took up one of his hands, wordlessly taking in the scraped, bloody knuckles and seeing how it still shook until he curled it into a fist.

"A fine mess you've made, lover," she remarked softly, almost to herself.

Castiel's brow drew together in quiet anger, in a dismay so profound it shook him. "I am not worth dying for," he said tightly, shaking his head. His voice was low at first, sounding hollow and foreign to her and carrying a mournful note she deeply felt. Meg knew without asking that he wasn't just talking about the angels. Castiel choked back something that could have been a sob, forcibly ignoring the way his chest clenched at the reminder of all he had lost today, and all he'd lost since he first set foot on this godforsaken earth. "I am not worth…"

He couldn't even finish the thought, partly because the stricken words lodged in his throat and partly because Meg had already pulled him into a tight embrace. Castiel's rant died down, overridden by the sudden relief in the gesture, but also by the unwelcome influx of emotion it sought to drag out of him. _Retreat_, the grieving voice in his head advised, but he ignored it, _needing_ that desperate ache that was consuming him to go away. Needing her to fix what was wrong with him, what was breaking him.

Meg pressed her lips over the top of his head, fingers carding gently through his hair. "I know, Castiel."

He didn't make a sound at first, but Meg felt the shudder rock through him, heard the short intake of air as his breathing hitched. After a long moment, she felt his fingers reach up to catch in her jacket, keeping her from letting go. Meg kissed his hair again, allowing him the time he needed, the solace he needed. Whatever he needed.

Castiel remained tense, disconsolate but for the feel of her against him. Every cell, every membrane of his body, felt wracked with guilt and loss, but Meg was here. With him. He listened to the quiet sound of her breathing as his fortitude frayed at the edges, drawing strength from her presence. As a flood of grief assailed him, indescribable pain burrowing deeply into his chest, he imagined her telling him to pull himself together. But there were no pithy teasing words, just the warmth from her skin on his and the comfort of her arms holding him together. Just Meg's voice murmuring quiet assurances in his ear, anchoring him when nothing else could. His stomach churned, body shuddering with fresh anguish at the relief he didn't deserve. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face against her as the tears began to roll down his cheeks.

Meg could only wait and listen as the creature she'd come to believe personified strength sucked in one ragged breath after another and fell completely apart in her arms.

The storm that had been raging inside him since entering the cabin broke loose finally and the floodgates opened to the torrent of emotion pouring out of him as Castiel began to sob. He grieved and grieved, not knowing how to stop and honestly feeling as though his world was crashing down.

Meg held on a little tighter, reminding Castiel that he wasn't alone.

* * *

_angels, lend me your might  
forfeit all my lives to get just one right  
never were we told  
that we'd be bought and sold  
when we were innocent_

* * *

The following day, that bereft despair was replaced by a mechanical numbness that left Castiel cold and unfeeling. Forty dead at the camp—he wondered briefly if that was some sort of omen. Kevin, Charlie, and Garth were still alive; they'd been out on a run when the attack came. Hael would live, though with possible permanent damage.

But Ezekiel? Risa? The countless other siblings he'd lost, the humans struck down in the crossfire?

Castiel stood in the deserted field just outside the camp as the first fires of dawn erupted on the horizon. His armor was back in place, the walls around his fortitude rebuilt, now stronger and more impenetrable than ever.

To the sky, to the world beyond his reach, he spoke. Low and menacing.

"I don't know where you are, Malachi. But I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch." The ice-cold threat tightened his tone, all compassion frozen over in the arctic chill of his expression. Eyes brilliant with suppressed anger, Castiel lost all rationale, all sense of mercy and righteousness. "There is nowhere on this earth you can hide, do you hear me?" Absolution was flat and unforgiving. "Listen closely, because you'd better have an army by the time I find you. Because I'm going to fucking obliterate you."

He had no further to fall. Nothing else to lose.

"See you soon, brother."

* * *

_so crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down  
I'll never wear your broken crown  
now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace  
in this twilight, our choices seal our fate_

* * *

**TRANSLATIONS_  
_**

Enochian:

_"Esezomi." / _My friend.

_"Esiach." _/ Brother.

_"Etharsi, azian."_ / Be calm, precious one._  
_

_"Ol om." _/ I know.

"Eophan. Ese gahalana, od ese salb hom. Ol isro, ol isro." / I'm sorry. She will live, and be well again. I promise, I promise._  
_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Next chapter will be titled "Omens." Please review! Even if it's only a sentence. It makes me happy and fuels the process. :D


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